Drakonia
by valkyriem
Summary: From the wizarding school in North America comes a girl who will have the power to change the world. You can't flee from evil forever, for it rises as it falls. She'll find that out soon; not even Hogwarts is safe. There will always be those who call for the blood of the dragoness. (1940's, Riddle-era, WWII, Grindelwald's reign, non-cannon) SOON PUBLISHED ON WATTPAD! [ON HOLD]
1. The Fall of Ilvermorny

**CAST**

 **Eva Green** _as_ **Lyra Verisiel Drakonia  
Christian Coulson** _as_ **Tom Marvolo Riddle  
Kreshnik Xhelilaj** _as_ **Antonin Dolohov  
Til Schweiger** _as_ **Gellert Grindelwald  
Jessie Campbell-Bower** _as_ **Aramis Laranlors Drakonia  
Alessia Cara** _as_ **Rhianne Lucretia Castello  
Ciara Wilson** _as_ **Honoura Onwuatuegwu  
Godfrey Gao** _as_ **Kim Dae-seong  
Nicole Kidman** _as_ **Adréanne Lorelei Drakonia**

* * *

 _1943, June the Thirteenth, 21:47:32 || Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Mount Greylock, Massachusetts, USA_

Dusk was setting in as the girl limped across the battlefield, the scent of blood and wet dirt and death clogging her nostrils.

The proud castle she'd once called home was littered with rubble, smoke rising in several places from the ravaged stone. The marble statue of Isolt Sayre that stood in the courtyard was covered in grime, and the snakewood tree that graced the west side of the battlements had shriveled. She could see the campfires of Grindelwald's followers glinting in the distance and hear their drunken revels as they boasted of their exploits. The bodies of the fallen littered the ground, torn blue and cranberry robes lying across mangled corpses, black cloaks with the sign of the Deathly Hallows covering the faces of the enemy.

She stumbled and the world spun, and she fell until something hard and scaly pushed itself against her back and righted her again. She turned and her pale blue-green eyes stared into large, matching ones.

 _Valkyr,_ she called to her dragon, _where are the other students?_

The black dragon straightened, scales glinting slightly with a royal purple in the setting sun. He sniffed, peering into the nearing darkness.

 _The keep,_ he growled in her head _, where the wounded are being tended to and the well are resting_. _The pukwudgies are collecting the dead and bringing them there as well._

The girl nodded. She raised her right hand and muttered under her breath, "Aletmes, fagrlissi'mri." _Come, my fangs._ Several silver blades embedded in bodies of the fallen rose into the air and raced toward her. She snatched them quickly, scanning the blades as she collected them in her hands. Then she methodically sheathed them: one serrated blade tucked in her left boot, a throwing knife on each of her thighs, and an assortment of small daggers into her torn and bloodied robes. The last two weapons she held—twin dirks, each reaching from her elbow to her palm, one forked, one smooth—she examined carefully for damage, confirming that the runes etched onto their surfaces were unmarred.

While she was thus preoccupied, Valkyr scrutinized his rider for injury. A darkening bruise graced her left temple, and blood flowed from a small but deep cut on her cheek. He could see where several curses had hit her: a deep cut coiled around her right calf, the rope-like spell having cut through her leather boot; a relatively shallow gash that ran across her stomach, courtesy of a _Diffindo_ ; rope burns that he could see at her wrists but that he knew extended over her entire body, the result of an overzealous _Incarcerous_. She turned to him, strapping the forked dirk to her right thigh, the smooth to her left, and intending to climb into the saddle strapped between his shoulder blades. He backed away.

 _Lyra,_ he grimaced, _heal yourself._ The girl fixed him with a pointed stare, her right eyebrow quirked. She reached for the saddle again. _I won't fly us to the keep until you do,_ he continued.

Lyra sighed, unfastening her horned serpent brooch from her cloak. She pricked her right pointer finger, replacing the needle and murmuring, " _iratze"_ as she painted a rune onto her open left palm.

As her blood dried, the rune briefly glowed aqua, then gold before disappearing completely. The prickling sensation of her flesh knitting back together coursed along her wounds, and Lyra sighed, thankful that she had used a rune instead of the _Vulnera Sanentur_ spell. Only by using faerzress (which was more commonly known by Maj-folk as Dark Magic) or ancient magic could one undo the effects of dark curses.

Faerzress could completely undo the effects the curses, but she would need specific incantations for each curse, or else the consequences would be disastrous. Lyra didn't really know what she'd been hit with—she'd fought off so many spells—but thankfully, ancient runic healing worked indiscriminately, though she would be left with slight silvery scars.

 _No matter_ , thought Lyra, pursing her lips into a wry smile. _I have a penchant for collecting scars, anyway._

She hoisted herself up into the black leather saddle, and Valkyr rose into the air, darkness billowing from his wings. They soared toward the eastern entrance of the upper keep, where the dragon stables opened with an archway shaped like the rising sun. A shimmering golden curtain greeted them, and Valkyr fired at it, deep purple flames swirling as the curtain accepted his unique fireprint and let the two of them in.

A large circular chamber greeted them, opening out to several luxurious stalls. Torches burning brightly with eternal Grecian fire lit the space, glinting off the gold inlaid alabaster. The floor was made from solid crystal quarried from the foundations of the school and carved on the underside with many facets, distributing the light from the stables into the space below. A pool of _aqua vitae_ lay in the middle of the floor, a golden, living replica of the snakewood tree growing from its depths. Off to the side, a wide staircase led to the lower keep, where Lyra supposed the other students had set up base for the night. Upon her entrance, Lyra noticed that four dragon riders were conversing anxiously, their dragons resting off to the side.

Lyra dismounted and was immediately greeted by a cry of her own name. Turning to face the person, she got a brief glimpse of black, unruly curls jouncing around in midair before a smaller body tackled her. A sharp _Oomph!_ escaped her before she regained her balance. Three more bodies swarmed her, enveloping her in a tight embrace.

"Can't breathe...air...becoming...problem," she managed to choke out. The bodies withdrew slightly, and their faces—the faces of Ilvermorny's only other dragon riders—swam into focus, greeting her with worried frowns creasing their brows and relief shining in their eyes. In her periphery, she could see the other dragons greet Valkyr.

"Where _were_ you? _DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED WE WERE_?!" shrieked the short, curly-haired witch who had tackled her, slight accent hinting of Italian.

"Rhianne, I appreciate your concern, but as you very well can see, I'm _fine_. I merely stopped to collect my knives. Enough about me now; how fare the wounded?"

"Ahh," said the tall, slender boy next to Rhianne, draping his arm over her shoulders and pulling her flush against him, "Moans and groans—y'know, the usual theatrics—but those made it out alive are patched up and doing well. All thanks, of course, to our resident Pukwudgie healer," he ruffled Rhianne's hair. Rhianne crinkled her brow up at him (no easy task as he loomed over her by more than a foot), and attempted to pat her hair down. "Did I ever mention how talented you are, Rhi? I mean, the way you fixed up that chap—"

"Yes, yes, I know," Rhianne snapped impatiently. "Thank you, but honestly Aramis, flattery will get you nowhere and we both know your half-Veela charm doesn't work when you're covered in blood and guts!"

Dae-seong, who somehow managed to dwarf them all, even Aramis, rolled his eyes and slapped Aramis upside the head.

"Ow!"

Aramis pouted, and they all chuckled at his antics, Lyra merely shaking her head at his immaturity.

"Lyra, Aramis," drawled Honoura, "ya dahlings shore yo's rela'ed?"

 _Why, she just keeps getting better at faking a Southern accent,_ snorted Valkyr.

 _So true,_ grinned Lyra. She shot a sneer at Aramis, who promptly returned it.

"You see, dahling—" Aramis began.

"—I understand your incredulousness—" cut in Lyra.

"—'cause sis here has this muddy, _ugly_ dark hair that is _so_ unlike anyone else's in the family since many great-grandmothers ago—"

" —and my brother has such a fair, _effeminate_ complexion from his Veela father—"

"—and sis is really a bit of a _prude_ , so _priggish_ and _high-strung_ all the time—"

"—well, excuse _you_ for being so _vapid_ and _ostentatious_ whenever you see anything in a skirt or slacks—"

"—and though unlikely as it may seem, we are from the same womb—"

"—so _unfortunately_ , we're stuck together as sister and brother—"

"—but only by halves!"

" _We know!"_ the other three exclaimed.

An amused cough echoed through the space. The five of them turned and saw a slim figure emerge from the shadows of the staircase.

"Elder," they murmured as he embraced them

"We have agreed to surrender in the morning," he said. "Grindelwald will know by now about the dragon riders, and will target the five of you. Lyra in particular, now that he finally knows where you are," he looked pointedly at her as the other four riders awkwardly diverted their attention, not wishing to breach the subject and incur her wrath as her pale eyes darkened and glinted dangerously.

"I deem it wise for you to part ways and continue your studies at other schools around the world, and have made the necessary preparations for your departures in the morning." the elder continued. "I suggest you carry your wands, as you did today during the battle; though I know you will not need them, they help keep appearances."

Lyra gritted her teeth. "Mine was destroyed."

The elder nodded, then abruptly changed topic. "These are portal globes," he said, producing five fist-sized glass orbs from his robes and handing one to each of them, "designed to take you and your dragon anywhere in the world. They bypass all wards and concealment charms, with the exception of the _Fidelius_." The elder paused slightly, ensuring that he had their undivided attention. "To ensure that only you and your dragon can use the globe in your hand, you must speak both of your full names and some details of your lives. I think your Sortings will satisfy the globe, and your dragons' race will do as well."

Dae-seong cleared his throat, shot them all a raised eyebrow, and stared into the orb. "My name is Kim Dae-seong, chosen by Thunderbird, house of adventurers, and Wampus, house of warriors; I reside in Thunderbird. My dragon is Sakura, a female River dragon." The grey mist swirling in the orb promptly turned an opaline white sheen, light pink clouds drifting across its surface. Sakura dipped her mother-of-pearl head, scales tinged with cherry blossom pink, and brushed the orb with her snout.

"Rhianne Lucretia Castello, chosen by Pukwudgie, house of healers. Kiiran is my male Faerin dragon." The mist in the orb glowed a rich forest green, glinting with bronze in the light. Tilting his head curiously, the green dragon observed the orb, emerald eyes gleaming and dragonfly wings buzzing.

"They call me Honoura Onwuatuegwu, chosen by Wampus, house of warriors, Pukwudgie, house of healers, and Horned Serpent, house of scholars; I belong in Wampus. My female Archaeryx dragon is Gyrlass." Gyrlass left off preening her feathers to watch as the mist in the orb first flashed crimson, the color of Wampus house, then yellow, green, and blue to match her plumage.'

"I am named Aramis Laranlors Drakonia, chosen by Thunderbird, house of adventurers, and Horned Serpent, house of scholars; I live in Thunderbird. My male dragon is Elladyr, a Brightscale." Elladyr, in all aspects like his rider, lounged on the floor, muscles rolling under his skin and creating the impression of liquid silver as he feigned nonchalance towards the now cerulean blue orb.

"I am Lyra Verisiel Drakonia, chosen by all four houses; I joined Horned Serpent. Valkyr is a male of the Nightwing species." Lyra smiled as she felt Valkyr nudge her in the back. Both of them stared at the orb, the mist inside a churning whirlwind of royal purple and obsidian black, lightning streaks of silver occasionally illuminating the inside, aperfect representation of Valkyr's fire and her own magic.

"Excellent," said the elder.

"The globes will activate when you throw them and name your destination. Dae-seong, you will be going to the Japanese Mahoutokoro School of Magic, located on Minami Iwo Jima, and," the elder smirked, "yes, they do accept Korean students. Rhianne, the Illuminatus Institution of Magic at Rome. Honoura, Uagadou in the Mountains of the Moon in Uganda. Aramis, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in the Pyrenees of southern France; and Lyra, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the Scottish highlands."

" _Hog...warts?!"_ Lyra sputtered incredulously.

"Indeed," the elder smiled. "Our British sister school."

"And home to the _warthogs!_ " chortled Aramis.

If glares could kill, the one Lyra sent his way would have left him a smoking pile of ashes. "Speak for yourself, _pretty stick_."

"Well, _everyone_ knows that _I'm_ the prettier of the two of us."

The elder gave another amused cough. "Let us continue...and I do believe that is a lie, Aramis."

Aramis flushed a pale pink as the rest of them snickered.

"Time is running short on us. I must relay this to you now, as I feel that we will not meet again for a very long time."

"I pass onto the five of you three things: a duty, a gift, and some words of advice. The duty I bestow you with is this: the role as keepers of the Dragon Gate. Guard the gate to the dragon eggs that will choose the next generation of riders, so that one day you will pass your legacy to them as I have passed mine to you, one day you will instruct the next Masters of Magic."

He summoned five packages, handing one to each of them, the color of the paper matching the that of the scales of their dragons.

"Inside you will find three things. Firstly, a letter addressed to a correspondent at each of your target schools. You must deliver the letter in person, as it is of the utmost importance that only the recipient detailed on the envelope reads the contents enclosed.

"Secondly, a small gift for each of you, early birthday presents if you will; they should prove useful to you in the near in the near future, and you may open them whenever you like."

"Thirdly, I pass to you the knowledge of the Masters, their final lesson. Guard it jealously, and study it only when completely alone, for it contains the secrets to the most powerful magic known to Maj-kind. Should even the _mention_ of such knowledge be known by an individual, the consequences for the world would be disastrous. If the documents enclosed are compromised _, it is your duty to destroy them_. There are terrible things taught, things that I would rather have destroyed and lost forever than fall into the wrong hands."

"And now, some parting words of advice that I wish for you to keep close to your hearts. Always try to learn as much as you can, but never show even half of your true knowledge or capabilities; instead use them as an ultima ratio. Arrogance can be your downfall, but so can underestimating yourself. The same applies to evaluating your opponents, for no one is entirely as they seem. Be wary of those around you; work alone and conceal yourself when possible. However, you are stronger as one than as individuals."

"Never lose sight of your purpose: to bring love and peace to the world. A life without love is not one worth living. Never forget who you truly are: unique and beautiful in your flaws. You have no obligation to conform, but it is always regarded as safer to do so. Your mind and heart are your greatest weapons but also the areas most vulnerable to attack. A fear of death is healthy, but to make it your greatest fear means that you will lose sight of what it means to live. Likewise, to dwell on the past and in your dreams is useful and comforting, but it does not do to lose yourself in them. When you feel that all hope is lost, remember to be the light."

Finally, in a softer tone, he added, "Do not fret, my children, if I pass from this life. I have lived long, and when my time comes and Death approaches to collect me from the world of the living, I will greet him as a friend. To die, after all, must be a very big adventure, and the happiest memories I take from this world will be of you."

He embraced them for the last time that night, that day, forever, kissing their foreheads and murmuring, "May you live your lives with strength, beauty, and joy. May we one day see Eterna together." Then, sadly, "I must attend to and complete my final duties; I regret that I will not be able to see you off. Get a good night's rest, for you must stay strong and keep fighting."

Then he left, his footsteps noiseless as he melted and disappeared into the shadows, leaving only silence and heavy breaths behind.

Seconds seemed like hours as the minutes ticked by in silence.

"So this is it then," murmured Honoura finally, spreading her lanky arms in an open embrace, much as a starved bird spreads its wings to hold the wind.

They piled together, clutching at each other as if to a lifeline, dry sobs heaving from their throats.

"Just for the record guys," Dae-seong said, voice choked and hoarse with a display of emotion so foreign to his stoic, sarcastic character, "I know that we may bicker and fight, but I love you all; you guys were the best second family I could ever have asked for."

"I love you too."

"Luv y'all."

"We'll be family forever and always."

"Love you everyone—even you, sis."

 _Whack. Wha-whack._

"Ow!"

They broke apart, Honoura howling with laughter as Lyra grinned cheekily at her scowling older brother.

"Well then, I suppose it's time to hit the hay... _literally,_ " sighed Aramis. The chorus of _good night_ 's filled the air as each of them went their separate ways, turning in for the night with their dragons.

Lyra waited until the other riders had drawn the silvery curtains across the entrances to their stalls before she drew her own. Nestling into the hay next to a curled up Valkyr, she lay the portal globe in her lap and carefully slipped open the package. An envelope tumbled out, spiraling slowly before resting at her feet.

The creamy parchment was crisp at the edges and made of heavy stock, she observed. The red wax seal was roughly the size of a Dragot, and bore the Ilvermorny Gordian knot and the words "Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Scripted neatly on the front in shining cranberry and royal blue ink was the address:

 _To Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore  
Deputy Headmaster, Professor of Transfiguration, Head of Gryffindor House  
Second Degree Acolyte  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
—Lemon drops, my friend._

Lyra sighed as she tucked the letter into Valkyr's saddlebag.

 _Of all the names they could have gone with, why Hogwarts? Why the exact reversal of warthog?_

 _Well,_ snorted Valkyr, _at least they didn't go with Katmeer. Or Batwom._

 _True, but meerkats and wombats to warthogs...the founders must've been drunk off their rockers._

 _Now we know why President Picquery caused such an uproar twenty years ago when she told MACUSA that the gigglewater was "non-negotiable."_

She chuckled and reached for the package again, admiring the undetectable extension charm that enabled it to be no larger than the size of her palm. Inside she found two wooden boxes, each large enough to occupy the entirety of her lap. In character they were vastly different: the first a warm, lacquered rosewood with a gold embossed dragon, the wood and sign of the house Drakonia; the second an unpolished ebony with silver engraving of the ancient language flowing across the lid.

 _Ebony; protection, power, secrecy. Activated by blood. This must hold the elder's final lesson._

The ebony box she tucked carefully into the saddlebag as she slid the rosewood box towards her knees. Without warning, the bas-relieved dragon rose up, nipping her index finger and drawing drops of blood that were absorbed by the wood. Lyra cursed, then was distracted momentarily as the box grew warm and popped open, revealing a lining of Bordeaux purple velvet. A fine sheet of vellum lay across the contents, golden ink glittering across its width.

 _Dear Lyra,_

 _Inside you will find a few artifacts of great use.  
A Thiago Quintana wand—one of the last of its kind, a gift from the White River Monster, known for power and elegance in performing magic.  
A Violetta Beauvais wand—use it carefully, and ensure that it does not leave your hands. Remember what people say: a Beauvais wand takes to Dark Magic like a vampire takes to blood.  
A wand made from the snakewood tree and the horn and gem of the legendary Horned Serpent, loyal to the one who proffers it his blood. Bind your blood to it, for then it shall serve no other.  
A locket with the crest of House Drakonia and memories of music from us, your loved ones. It will keep you calm in situations of great distress, and call your truest friends to you in times of great danger.  
A potion to be used when you want to disappear; each drop you take will remove your magic for an hour and prevent others from tracking you.  
Do not reveal that you possess these items; they can be used to effectuate great personal gain with disastrous effect in the hands of the selfish.  
I also confide to you the location of a room in Hogwarts: in legends they call it the Room of Requirement, also the Come and Go Room, an unplottable room that will appear when you need something. It is located on the left side of the castle, on the seventh floor, the wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet. Walk by the wall three times while thinking of what you need—you must be very specific—and a door will appear that reveals the room._

 _Stay safe,  
Elder Erhivast_

With great care not to soil it with her blood, she folded the vellum and placed it within the lid. She squeezed a few drops of her blood onto the snakewood wand. The serpent carved into the handle seemed to slither slightly, amber eyes sparkling. A low hiss emitted from its mouth, which Lyra recognized as, _Master I will serve you alone._

 _"Good,"_ she hissed back.

Lyra strung the locket around her neck before closing the lid of the box and depositing it into the saddlebag as well. As an overthought, she folded a fresh pair of Ilvermorny robes up, her fingers lingering on the softness of the fabric, the warm cranberry and the royal blue dimmed by the darkness, the golden Gordian knot dull and without its twinkle, and tucked her Horned Serpent brooch into its folds for good luck. This she dropped softly into the saddlebag, watching it slide out of sight into the infinite abyss of the bag.

She quickly stripped herself of her bloodied and torn school robes, removing the blades from within and banishing the ruined clothing with a flick of her wrist to the castle's laundry. In their place, she donned the skin-tight tunic and pants of the dragon riders, sliding the blades into their holsters.

A spare pair of boots and her gauntlets were donned as well, and she wrapped herself in a cloak as she raised her wards and silencing charms, before finally casting off to sleep.


	2. They Come Quiet

_1943, June the Fourteenth, 02:23:57 || Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Mount Greylock, Massachusetts, USA_

 _Blood dripping on the walls, splattering on the chandelier...  
The silver whip, coiling, striking, snake-like...  
Icy, sharp pain...  
Screams and shrieks and wails and pleas that were not her own...  
The glassy eyes of the dead staring blankly into space..._

Lyra awoke screaming and thrashing, her voice already hoarse. Cold sweat trickled down her neck and back, and as she looked up in the near darkness, she could see Valkyr peering down at her, worried.

 _How fare thee, little one?_

Valkyr helped her sit up as she drew gasping breaths and loosed her dark hair from its unraveling crown braid, smoothing the strands with shaky hands. Standing and brushing the hay from her clothing, she tucked the portal globe into her cloak pocket and walked to the curtain. After a moment's hesitation, she pushed it aside, walking out stealthily as Valkyr noiselessly padded behind. Lyra could hear the soft snores and breaths of the other riders and their dragons.

So her silencing charm had been strong.

Good.

The castle was quiet and peaceful, deathly so for the time being.

Lyra inhaled deeply, memorizing the fine scent of the castle she called home. She closed her eyes, seeing again the grandeur yet homeliness of the halls and corridors; the benevolence of the white marble statue of Isolt Sayre that they all called Mother; the sweet, bubbling, laughing Midas water that sang as it trickled and spraying from the fountains of the houses and turned what it touched to gold; the smiles of the students and teachers she had called her family; the feeling of magic as it coursed through her, uninhibited by a wand. She remembered the moats of dust floating through the library that smelled deliciously of parchment and ink and old books, rivaled in size only by the library at Hogwarts; the soft light that entered the Cathedral of Spirits from the stained glass windows; the richly colored banners of the houses that waved proudly in the wind during the Quodpot games and the Dragon Tournament and the cheers of her housemates as she lifted the emerald banner of House Horned Serpent.

Sometimes, Lyra wondered whether the castle _knew_ things. When she reached out with her conscience to brush the walls, they seemed to hum with warmth, not unlike the folds in the mind of a living being. And though she heard no thoughts, the walls seemed to sing a beautiful melody that told of a story of love and revenge, pulsing magic and pride through her veins as she heard it.

Tonight, the walls were strangely silent, the castle seemingly dead. The Grecian fire in the chamber seemed to sputter, and Lyra shuddered with dread as she saw that one of the eternal flames had gone out. Then another one hissed and spat and _died_. She glanced out the archway...and froze.

The dragon keep, she recalled, was under a concealment charm, the doorway enchanted to appear as part of the stone wall of the keep to those who did not know of its existence. But there was a company's worth of cloaked men astride brooms outside the curtain, firing spells at the wards that protected the walls. Lyra's only consolation was that the curtain was similar to a one-way glass; she could see them, but _they_ could not see _her_.

 _Dementors,_ she noted grimly as more torches began to flicker and go out. _They must have used them to find us. Let's wake the others._

 _Agreed._

Lyra opened her mouth and let out her best imitation of a banshee wail just as Valkyr roared with all the might he had.

A few moments later:

"I'm up! I'm up! Jeez, dame will you shut it?" groaned Dae-seong from the stall on her right.

" _Bloody buggerin' hell!_ I'll kill you sis!"

"TURN THAT RACKET OFF NOW! IT'S HORSEFEATHERIN' TWO-THIRTY IN THE MORNING!"

"Who's dying?" asked Rhianne, calmly striding out of her stall as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

Lyra retired the use of her vocal chords and Valkyr crouched quietly. Looking Rhianne straight in the eyes, Lyra jerked her head toward the archway. Rhianne squinted as the last torch snapped out, leaving the chamber illuminated only by the moon and giving a clear view into the air beyond. Though pale in the moonlight, Rhianne went whiter than bleached bone.

Clearing her voice, Lyra commanded in a sharp tone, "Knights, assemble _now._ "

She watched as Rhianne bowed her head in a salute and the other riders stumbled out of their stalls, their slightly irritated expressions going slack and ghostly with terror as they stood before her.

"Collect your things and prepare to depart. Aramis, Rhianne, wake the students and teachers, make sure they find a way to stay safe. Dae-seong, strengthen the wards and seal all entrances. Honoura, secure the dragon eggs. Take care not to be seen by the enemy; flee if you find yourself in danger. Otherwise, evacuate as soon as you have finished your tasks."

"And you, my lady?" asked Dae-seong.

"I will guard this archway and hold off the enemy as long as possible. If they breach the defenses and you hear fighting, you must leave at once. I will contact you as soon as I can. Now go forth, my knights. Remember that _we are lights_ _in the darkness._ "

Lyra watched the four rise and move with purpose as she turned to face the enemy, cracking her knuckles and rolling her neck. It was going to be a nasty fight.

* * *

 _1943, June the Fourteenth, 07:29:02 || Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Highlands, Scotland_

An elderly man with shoulder-length white hair and a full beard stepped up to the eagle podium in the Great Hall. He smiled to the students sitting quietly at the four long tables.

"Students," he began somberly, "yesterday, a student by the name Myrtle Warren was found dead in the girl's first floor bathroom, following numerous attacks on students during the past month. Our hearts go out to her family in hopes to ease their grief.

"Justice has been served, however, and Ms. Warren's killer has been found. Her death, and the petrification of many other students, was due to an Acromantula." Much whispering broke out at this statement.

" _Quiet!_ " The noise abruptly ceased. The man smirked slightly before clearing his throat and continuing.

"For finding the culprit and preventing the closure of Hogwarts, we are greatly indebted to Mr. Tom Riddle, Slytherin's fifth year prefect. Mr. Riddle, if you would please join me on stage." A slender boy with black hair and dark eyes rose from his seat at the Slytherin table, walking with grace and confidence toward the podium.

"Headmaster Dippet," he acknowledged, his pale, aristocratic features molded carefully into a sympathetic expression, though his eyes were cold and glinted of both irritation and triumph.

"The entire school thanks you, Tom, and it is with great pleasure that I present you with a 'Special Services to the School'," the headmaster said, smiling fondly toward the boy. Applause broke out from the entire school, cheers and hoots and whistles, as Dippet handed him a small silver trophy.

"Oh, it was my duty," said Tom, his cheeks flushing slightly with perceived modesty.

"Nevertheless, a great thing you have done!" Dippet exclaimed, clapping the boy's back. Tom nodded his head slightly. "Now students, breakfast is served!" The plates piled with food, and the chatter began as Tom strode back to his table.

Upon returning to his seat, he was accosted by a fawning Araminta Meliflua.

"Tom," she crooned, leaning over with the intent to place her hand on his arm. "You're _so_ brave." He evaded her politely, instead flashing her a stunning smile and swirling his cloak as he sat on the mahogany bench.

"It was the least I could do, to save Hogwarts. Such a pity, the girl's death."

"Yes," sniffed the boy next to him, platinum blond hair slicked back and cold grey eyes looking down his pale, sharp visage. "But surely you must have noticed the attacked students and the dead girl: mudbloods, all of them. Hardly a waste of life, if you ask me; it would have been better indeed if all of the lot had died."

Tom's eyes flashed with anger, a startling ruby color filling his irises for a fleeting moment. "Do not insult my intelligence, Malfoy," he hissed. "And it is imprudent to speak thus in public."

The Malfoy heir blushed slightly. "Yes, of course, Tom."

"Vile, filthy creatures, those mudbloods and muggles," spat Araminta. "Of course, if I could have _my_ way in the Ministry, muggle hunting would be a sport for purebloods—make no mistake of that, Abraxas. Those vermin have no purpose but to slave and serve us."

"My father _does_ have connections," said the Malfoy. "But it is best to be subtle at times like this; there is strong opposition to Grindelwald in the Ministry. It would not do to make our support of his actions or beliefs public."

"Cheer up, Minty," said another fair-haired boy, grinning as he slid into the open seat next to Abraxas Malfoy, four more boys following him. "Grindelwald's gaining support all across Europe. It'll only be a matter of time before he takes over the Ministry and all those mudbloods and blood traitors will get their due." He turned to face Tom. "Congratulations, Riddle." The other four boys voiced similar salutations.

"Avery," Tom acknowledged the fair-haired boy who smiled gently. "Rosier," he said to the brown-haired one who grinned playfully. "Lestrange, Dolohov, Black." The last three—all tall, lean, and dark—smirked and nodded back with gravity and respectfulness in their demeanors. The five of them filled their plates and began conversation with the Malfoy heir, talking quietly as Araminta continued to lavish herself upon Tom. They paused briefly to acknowledge two more boys.

"Nott, Mulciber."

"Congratulations, Tom."

The boys sat, inclining their heads to the Slytherin prefect. Conversation resumed.

Without warning, a blazing heat scorched through the Great Hall, all noise grinding to an abrupt halt as the students looked about confusedly. A chilling coldness followed, and the sky outside went pitch black, as if the clock had suddenly struck midnight. The next moment, the darkness receded to a twilight, and the whole of the Great Hall turned their faces upwards, looking at the ceiling that was enchanted to look like the sky outside. A small figure seemed to be falling slowly towards them, and a dark, tumbling mass pursuing it before the sky went dark again.

* * *

 _1943, June the Fourteenth, 02:41:46 || Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Mount Greylock, Massachusetts, USA_

Lyra had been flinging wards toward the curtain, trying to hold the enemy off. Her limbs were now sore and she was growing tired, perspiring and drawing her breath in desperate pants. There was only so much she could do against the two hundred and twenty-seven could see the effect of her powerful magic, the floor near the curtain growing cracked and hot. The nightmares, the dehydration, the amount of energy it took for her to perform the magic—they all bore down on her, and she found herself seeing black for a brief moment.

But that brief moment of falter in her concentration was enough to give the men outside what they so desperately needed: a chance to break through the enchantments. Lyra was blasted across the chamber as she heard the explosion, dueling for her life as she prayed that her friends and family—all those at Ilvermorny who had given her something she could call a home—had reached safety. Together, she and Valkyr roared, fire spewing from their jaws and mixing with the tortured wails of men and the hissing of burning flesh.

 _Use the orb now!_ cried Valkyr.

Lyra summoned the orb, throwing it as she yelled, "HOGWARTS!" She saw the mist in the orb explode out, swirling in a riptide vortex, swirling and sucking and pulling her and Valkyr towards its center, like Charybdis drawing in a great gulp of water. She felt the curses hitting her, felt the searing pain in her limbs, felt the blood trickling down her stomach and her limbs giving way. She heard furious words roared at her, saw cold eyes glaring as a jet-black light soared toward her and struck her full force in the sternum.

" _SANGUIRE RUT KARTALAS!"_

Then she was falling through the air, the morning sun blinding her before Valkyr's wings spread and he was caught upward in a rush of air. Night followed his wings, the gentle touch of darkness embracing her. She was choking, her lungs burning with the need for air, as if she had been submerged into a deep pool. As the world began to fade, she saw Valkyr roar and dive for her, but she could not sense or feel him, her vision burning and obscured by blood, her nostrils and throat clogged by it, her ears filled with nothing but the screaming, thundering beat of her impossibly fast pulse, her dying conscience blank except for the word _Anapneo_ that she chanted and held to like a fading lifeline as she clawed and clutched at her throat...

* * *

 _1943, June the Fourteenth, 07:43:22 || Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Highlands, Scotland_

It took a moment for someone to notice. But not ten seconds had passed before all in the Great Hall saw the black blur approaching. Those who had seen death saw the thestral, plunging through the large window for the morning owl post; those who had not the black lump that the thestral carried on its back. The thestral landed, galloping straight for the head table, before stopping abruptly, dropping the lump on its back before the headmaster. It briefly nuzzled the lump, before turning it over and flying off.

Then the shouts and gasps began. The reactions of the professors would have been almost comical if not for the blanched looks of horror on their faces.

"Oh my Morgana!"

 _"Bloody hell!"_

 _"Merlin's beard!"_

There were thumps as some of the professors, notably a plump man who quite resembled a walrus and a shrewish man with grubby clothes and a small goatee, fell out of their chairs, nearly fainting from shock. The auburn-haired man sitting next to the headmaster stood so quickly that his chair collapsed with a loud _bang_ , which he entirely disregarded. This fact alone sent the Great Hall into a new state of general confusion.

Indeed, it was both the first and the last time any of the students or professors would see Albus Dumbledore jump over the Head table.

The Transfiguration professor reached the thrashing black lump, squatting to pick up a small envelope. His already shocked face went several shades whiter, his blue eyes widening.

Another professor approached behind him, her black hair mostly streaked with grey.

"Albus?" she queried.

"Galatea," the professor rushed, "have Madam Celandine brought in, with her whole stock of blood-replenishing potions; tell her to owl St. Mungo's for their best healer _immediately._ Not a moment to lose."

The woman nodded, turning to a student and barking, "Fetch Madame Celandine! Get all of the blood replenishing potions. NOW!" After the student rushed out of the Great Hall, she turned back to the transfiguration professor, who was waving his wand frantically and muttering what sounded like every counter-curse he knew. The woman shuddered as she saw the lump more clearly. She _was_ the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, but this was by far the most gruesome application of curses she had ever seen.

The lump took the form of a starved, dark-haired girl, whose limbs were bent and twisted at unnatural angles and spasming violently. Blood gurgled from every orifice, dripping from her eyes, running from her nose and ears, spurting from her mouth. Her chest was caved in, her ribs no doubt broken, and her features bloated in a grotesque distortion as pus ran from huge boils on her skin. Residual dark magic poured off of her in waves.

"Anapneo!" the DADA professor shouted, pointing her wand at the girl's throat. The professor winced as the girl's airway cleared and the coughing turned into shrill screams.

But the unintelligible shrieks abruptly faded as more blood gurgled from the girl's mouth and her twitching began to slow.

"ACCIO BLOOD-REPLENISHING POTION!" bellowed the Transfiguration professor, too rushed to see a woman rushing into the Great Hall. A large flask flew out of the woman's arms and towards the professor. He caught it deftly in his left hand, opting to break off the mouth of the flask instead of unscrewing the lid. Kneeling, he lifted the girl's head and forced nearly all of the potion down her gaping mouth. Again, he tried to remove the curses, this time with the joint effort of the infirmary matron, the DADA professor, the headmaster, and the now-recovered walrus man.

Time passed, the students murmured in confusion as they attempted to stand on the tables and see past the circle of professors. A man entered the hall, bearing the insignia and colors of St. Mungo's on his robes.

"Stand back!" he yelled, running towards them. He entered their circle, and stood frowning down at the shuddering girl, casting diagnostic spells at her. "Counter-curses wont work. I must use a runic spell. I'll need a circle of seven casters; we have five in the circle so we'll need two more." The small man with the goatee and a stern, bird-like woman flitted down to join them. The healer murmured among them for a few seconds, then they all stood straight, pointing their wands at the girl.

"On the count of three," said the healer, "one...two...THREE!"

"ESTIERREN NHA MORDEN!" the seven of them chanted, watching the blue heptagon form from their wands and settling like a blanket over the girl. The blood flow slowly began to stop, and the disfigurement of her features melted away, though they remained indistinguishable under the coating of her blood. The healer bent to heal her chest, the loud cracking of her rib cage regaining its structure eliciting winces from everyone in the immediate vicinity. She twitched and coughed, but did not regain consciousness. The healer produced a shrunken stretcher from his pocket, enlarging it. He levitated the girl gently onto it, noting that her breathing was still very shallow.

"Take her to the Hospital Wing," the healer told Madam Celandine. "She should recuperate fairly quickly, though her body and mind still need to recover from the blood loss and trauma. Do not hesitate to send her to St. Mungo's if she does not wake by the end of the day." He then strode out of the Great Hall.

"Poor dear," said Madam Celandine. She knelt, and running her wand along the girl's form, repeated, "Scourgify."

As the blood cleared off, the Madam got a small glimpse of the girl's face before the Transfiguration professor ran off, levitating the stretcher toward the hospital wing. It was a gaunt, pained, bruised face, a face that belonged to someone who had seen the epitome of suffering. The girl wasn't considered particularly pretty by the standards of the day, with her low cheekbones and narrow face. But the regal lines of her visage, only complemented by her heavy-set hooded eyes and the small, silvery, crescent scar on her left cheek, gave her a proud sort of beauty and an air of elegance and sophistication that many Hogwarts pureblood girls tried but failed to achieve.

As she walked back to the Hospital Wing, Madame Celandine wondered who the girl was, the roar of the students behind her reflecting her own bewildered state.


	3. Lost but Not Found

By the time Madam Celandine reached the Hospital Wing, the Transfiguration professor had erected strong wards around the girl's cot, the shimmering dome visible about her prone form. The professor himself stood outside the dome, reading a letter on creamy parchment. The crease between his eyebrows was prominent, the bushy brows drawn down into a sharp V.

The madam cleared her throat. "Albus?"

The professor looked up, startled. Then he gave her a weary smile.

"Ah, Poppy," he said. "If you please, take care of this girl. Draw the curtains about her so that none may approach and see her, for I must run to find Armando. If she should wake, calm her and tell her that I shall be with her shortly." Then he strode out of the Hospital wing, his star-spangled evergreen robes swishing merrily behind him, cleaned of the blood that had coated their hems.

Madam Celandine stared at his retreating figure. She complied before checking her other patients and tidying up the wing.

* * *

It was to a state of incredulity that Albus Dumbledore entered the Great Hall. As he neared the Head table, he cleaned the floor of blood.

"Albus, what has happened?" exclaimed Dippet.

"I shall explain later, Armando," said Dumbledore, righting his chair. "Though may I take the liberty of troubling you and Galatea to accompany me to the Hospital Wing? Our—guest, shall we call her? —our guest still requires our attention."

"And classes?" asked Dippet.

"Exams are over," replied Dumbledore. "Give them the day off: the poor souls no doubt need one, I'm sure; the weather is most pleasant. But," he continued, his sapphire eyes twinkling bemusedly, "do warn them not to venture farther than the Quidditch Pitch and Hogsmeade and certainly not to the Black Lake or Forbidden Forest, lest they wish to suffer an excruciatingly painful death."

Dippet sighed and stood to make the announcement. Dumbledore was a conundrum; nothing the man said or did ever made sense, but everything he said or did had a purpose. It would be best then, he concluded, for him to follow Dumbledore's advice, no matter how confusing said advice was.

The students, of course, were delighted, cheering the fact that they had a day off.

* * *

Lyra awoke with a pounding headache. Glancing around, she saw two men and two women talking quietly beyond her privacy screen. She sat up, wincing at the nausea.

 _Valkyr?_ She asked, searching for him, calling for him with her mind.

 _I'm safe, little one. There is a small island on the lake by the castle, near the forest, which I am resting on._

 _What happened? Where is the orb?_

 _You lost conscience as you fell through the air. I barely caught you, little one, and I carried you through an open window into a hall filled with people. I placed you in front of Albus Dumbledore, and put the letter in your hand. The orb is in my saddlebag._

 _Please say you didn't use your dragon form. And how do you know what Albus Dumbledore looks like?_

 _Of course not, little one—do you take me to be a fool? I appeared to them as a thestral. And the elder gave me a memory of him; he has quite a singular appearance, and his eyes are most annoyingly twinkly._

 _I'll come visit you. We have to contact the others, make sure they're safe._

 _Done that. They are all unharmed, exhausted by the travel, but completely safe and settling in well. But please do come visit when you get a chance; the atmosphere is positively dismal at times, and I could do with some company._

Lyra swung out of the bed quietly, observing that her clothes were unchanged, clean but torn. As she stumbled forward and reached for the privacy screen, Lyra felt the buzz of magic brush her fingertips. She recoiled as if burnt, her heart rate accelerating and her breath caught. The murmuring abruptly stopped, and soft, shuffling footsteps approached. Panicked, Lyra settled herself into a defensive crouch as the pounding in her chest grew painful. A slightly veined and wrinkled hand reached around the curtain, pulling it back slowly. Bright blue eyes greeted her, their twinkle warm but slightly annoying. Slightly greying auburn beard and hair surrounded the visage of the man, bushy but groomed in appearance. His nose was long and slightly crooked, as if it had been broken but never properly healed.

"Ah, you're awake my dear," said the man, beaming. "Excellent."

Lyra merely narrowed her eyes in response, doing a double take as she observed his robes.

 _Yellow spangles on evergreen? Are those his pajamas? The color clashes horribly with his hair._

"Good morning, sir," she said curtly, never removing her scrutinizing gaze from the man.

"It is not morning, my dear; you were unconscious for quite some time —twelve-and-a-half hours in fact—and it is now slightly past eight o'clock in the evening."

Lyra contemplated the man in front of her. He seemed friendly enough, but appearances could be deceiving.

"Why should I trust you?" she asked.

In response, the man smiled enigmatically. He drew a wand from his sleeve, the wood smooth and with a dark, rich cherry finish. Lyra stiffened.

But the man merely said, "Tempus," as he flicked his wrist. A blue clock appeared, the hands pointing to 8:12 PM. Another flick, and the clock disappeared, the wand returning to its place up the man's sleeve.

"A wise thing to say," said the man. "My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, deputy headmaster, professor of Transfiguration, and head of Gryffindor House for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—upon my magic this I do swear."

As the oath took effect and energy crackled around the man, Lyra relaxed slightly.

"I read the letter," continued Dumbledore. "If you do not mind, I would like to allow our matron, Madam Celandine, to examine you for any residual dark magic before I introduce you to two other people." He stepped aside, and a petite woman with mousy hair tucked into a starched nurse's cap and large, expressive, cow-like eyes rushed forth. Lyra blinked as the woman fussed over her and chattered on.

"You know," said the matron, "it took nearly all the professors, myself, and a healer from St. Mungo's to heal you. We were all so worried; a thestral dropped you off in the Great Hall right in the middle of breakfast, thrashing and choking. Quite a stir among the students, there is."

 _Thanks Valkyr, there goes my plan to remain inconspicuous._

But Lyra turned to the matron with a grateful, sincere smile on her face. "Thank you Madam," she murmured. "Might I ask who the professors were? I do wish to thank them as well, for I would not be alive without their efforts."

"Ah, of course!" exclaimed the matron. "Let's see now—there was Professor Dumbledore, who you just met, Professor Merrythought, Professor Slughorn, Professor Beery, Professor Carmenis, and Headmaster Dippet. That made seven of us total to perform the spell. Such an odd incantation it had—runic, I believe."

"Estierren nha morden?"

The nurse looked surprised. "How'd you know?"

Lyra merely shrugged. "I've picked up some rare spells. And it's an elven spell, not runic."

There was a brief period of quiet as she sat under the diagnostic spells Madam Celandine ran and watched as the matron fixed the tears in her clothing, transfiguring the skintight bodice and slacks into a soft, puff-sleeved white blouse and a pleated, grey ankle-length skirt. Lyra felt the matron's slim fingers gently twist her hair into a French braid.

"All cleared," said the matron, smiling. "Now that you look more like the other students, I'll take you to meet the professors."

The matron put a light hand between Lyra's shoulder blades and carefully guided her beyond the screen. Lyra looked around, noting the long white rows of pristine white hospital beds, the warmly glowing lamps, the gothic architecture—sharp vaults and arches—of the grey stone. Just beyond the curtain, near the foot of the bed, Dumbledore quietly conversed with an elderly man in deep blue robes, while a kindly-looking woman with greying hair stood by attentively.

"—best to enroll her as a seventh year, as she already has taken advanced courses in each subject."

"How old is she?" asked the elderly man.

"I turned fifteen this past April," said Lyra.

"Merlin's beard, _fifteen?"_

"Yes, sir."

"Albus, do again explain why Grindelwald wants to kill a fifteen-year-old so badly."

"I'm afraid that is not my secret to disclose," said Dumbledore. "But the fact remains that Lyra here needs a safe place to hide, and Hogwarts is one of the safest places in wizarding world. Lyra, allow me to introduce Armando Dippet, headmaster, and Galatea Merrythought, professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Remembering their names from the matron, Lyra dropped into a graceful curtsy, the folds of her skirt spreading out like a blossoming chrysanthemum. "Fair be our meeting, Headmaster Dippet and Professor Merrythought. My sincerest and greatest thanks to you and Professor Dumbledore, for without your care I would be already among the realm of the dead."

"Well met, Lyra of the most Noble and Ancient House of Drakonia," said Merrythought. "Armando, shall we relocate to your office?"

"Yes, yes," said the Headmaster. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Lyra."

With the headmaster's approval, Dumbledore gently tapped his wand on Lyra's head. A cold, trickling feeling slid down her body, as if a raw egg had been cracked on her head. Lyra noted that she now took on the exact color and texture of her surroundings. _The Disillusionment spell,_ she noted. To all but the well-practiced eye, she was invisible.

Lyra followed the professors down the hallways, noting the students that greeted them politely as they passed. Bodies jostled and rushed by, seas of blue, red, green, and yellow robes. Boys swaggered around in starched and stiff trousers, dress shirts, and blazers under their robes; girls giggled in the corners, fluffing their perfectly rolled, voluminous curls and fidgeting with their pinched gymslips. As the they turned a corner, Lyra began to hear raised voices.

"—oh look," sneered a cold voice, "it's the blood-traitor pauper Weaselbee and mudblood Lennings." The word _mudblood_ was spat so viciously that Lyra flinched, wondering what it could possibly mean.

"Sod off, Malfoy. At least _his_ father doesn't need to buy his way into the Ministry."

"How _dare_ you speak to Abraxas like that, filthy scum!" a female voice screeched. _"Ducklifors!_ "

Raucous laughter, and "Nice one, Walburga!" were heard among echoing, indignant quacks and shouts.

 _"_ _Anteoculatia! Densaugeo!"_ roared another voice.

"You vile toad! Bow to your betters!" shouted yet another voice.

 _"_ _Furnuculus! Redactum Skullus!"_

 _"_ _Melofors! Duro!"_

The professors nearly flew around the bends, while Lyra broke into an easy run behind them.

"Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Black, Mr. Mulciber! Mr. Weasley! Mr. Lennings, is that you?" cried Professor Merrythought.

Lyra skidded to a halt and clapped her hand over her mouth, unsure of whether to laugh or smack her head against the wall at the sheer ridiculousness of the sight in front of her.

Three students in emerald green were glaring at two students in scarlet red—or to be precise, one student and one duck draped in red robes. Among the students in green, one boy—his pale face sharp and pointed, blond hair long and gelled back—had pus-oozing boils covering him from head to toe, another—burly and dark—had a head shrunk to the size of a marble, and the last—a brunette girl with a haughty, enraged expression on her face—had antlers growing and twisting and tangling from her hair and front teeth that reached to her chin and were slowly growing longer and longer. Among the students in red, one was stumbling around, his head encased by a rock-hard pumpkin, while the other was flapping and quacking angrily, caught in his now too-large robes.

"Professor Merrythought!" lisped the girl, who now resembled a jackalope with naked mole rat teeth, "Those…those…"

"Buffoons," supplied the blond boy.

"Yes, Abraxas, those _buffoons_ , attacked us in the hallway! They showed no respect for…for…"

"A lady of high breeding."

"They showed no respect for a lady of high breeding. They ought to be punished! To be…to be…"

"Expelled, then drawn and quartered for their misdeeds," added the boy.

"They ought to be expelled, then drawn and quartered for their misdeeds!"

Lyra's amusement increased as the girl struggled with words, lisping through teeth that had grown another three inches.

"Why, those…those…"

"Scoundrels," said the boy again.

"Yes I _know_ , Abraxas Malfoy! Those scoundrels must…must…"

"Grovel at my feet and kiss my toes and beg for forgiveness," said the boy who Lyra now knew was called Abraxas Malfoy.

"Those scoundrels must grovel at my feet and kiss my toes and beg for forgiveness!"

"Ms. Black," sighed Dippet, "Quit the histrionics, if you please."

"And furthermore," the girl shrieked, "furthermore…"

In the meanwhile, Lyra had silently crept up behind Malfoy and wandlessly, wordlessly silenced him. When the girl once again began to falter, Lyra imitated Malfoy to her best ability and shouted out,

"I'm in love with Mr. Weasley!"

"Furthermore, I'm in love with Mr. Weasley!" At this proclamation, the boy who had been stumbling around, head encased by the petrified pumpkin, tripped and fell with a thunderous crash. The pumpkin shattered, revealing a horrified, red-haired visage.

 _"_ _What?"_ the boy choked disgustedly. "You just said you were _in love_ with me?"

"I most certainly did not, you idiot! I am not my disgrace of a cousin, Cedrella!" screamed the girl. Then realization slowly dawned on her face. Lyra smirked as she unsilenced Malfoy.

 _Three…_

 _Two…_

 _One…_

"ABRAXAS OPHIUCHUS MALFOY!"

"Not me, I swear!"

"HOW DARE YOU, ABR—"

"MISS BLACK!" roared Dippet, "Enough. Twenty points from Slytherin, each! Twenty points from Gryffindor, each! Detention for all of you! Galatea, escort them to the infirmary."

Lyra quietly sidled back behind Professor Dumbledore, who was staring at her unblinkingly even though she was invisible. Then, suddenly, he gave a subtle wink, eyes twinkling. As Professor Merrythought herded them quickly away, levitating the duck, Headmaster Dippet began striding forward once again.

A few corridors later, the company of three stood before an imposing, sour-looking gargoyle.

"Bowtruckle," said Dippet. The gargoyle slid aside, revealing a winding staircase, which all three climbed, the gargoyle sliding back into place behind them. As they entered a large, somber, circular chamber, Professor Dumbledore turned towards her and once again tapped his wand on her head. A warm feeling passed over her as the spell was lifted, and she could once again see the rest of her body. Headmaster Dippet ushered her into a mahogany chair before a similarly colored desk, before taking his place on the seat opposite. Professor Dumbledore stood by him, staring at Lyra down his slightly crooked nose.

"Alright then," said Dippet. "Albus has told me that you are a fifteen-year old witch in who Grindelwald is currently investing much of his effort to capture and possibly kill. Neither you nor he will tell me why. Nevertheless, it is somehow imperative that you're to be enrolled as a _seventh year_ in _NEWT level classes_ this September, and that measures will be taken to conceal your identity from the other students."

"NEWT?" Lyra asked confusedly.

"Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests," sighed Dippet. "The highest level of education wizarding Britain can offer. Albus has shown me your transcript, and I note that you've taken several—what were they?"

"AP," said Dumbledore.

"AP level classes," continued Dippet. "What is an 'AP?'"

"Advanced Placement. Wizarding America's test system is modeled after the No-Maj system; an organization called 'College Board' was founded in 1899 at a No-Maj institution called Columbia University, or so I'm told by my New-Maj friends."

"No-Maj? New-Maj?" interrupted Dippet.

"Slang for no magic, or 'non-wizard,'" said Lyra. "The term 'New-Maj' refers to wizards and witches with No-Maj parents. I believe the expression varies from country to country; what is the British word?"

"'Muggle' for non-wizards, 'muggleborn' for wizards and witches with muggle parents," Dippet explained. '''Squibs' are the opposite, non-wizard children born to magical parents. There are other terms, like 'pureblood' for those who can trace magic in their families back to the time of Merlin and 'halfblood' for children of purebloods and muggleborns."

Lyra scrunched her nose in distaste.

 _This seems awfully prejudiced,_ she remarked to Valkyr, who she could feel was curled up at the edge of her conscience.

 _Culture shock much? The rest of Europe is just as bad, slurs in both race and blood. At least America doesn't have such…segregative terms in the wizarding community._

 _Slurs?_

 _Think, little one._

"What does 'mudblood' mean, then?" she asked.

Dumbledore stiffened and Dipped pursed his lips.

"It is a highly offensive, derogatory, and vulgar word for muggleborn, meaning 'dirty blood.' I strongly suggest you never use it."

"Never intended to," replied Lyra. "Anyhow, College Board introduced AP level courses as an extension of standard course material. Ilvermorny copied the system and offers AP courses to, I quote, ' _students who demonstrate proficiency in the subject to the highest degree.'_ Students must take an examination for the subject and receive a grade within the seventy-sixth percentile to qualify for an AP course. It doesn't matter how old you are when you take the exam, and if you score within that range, you can take AP classes while taking standard classes. Unlike other magical schools, or so I've heard, Ilvermorny doesn't assign courses by years of study, but by academic level. Students start school at eleven, and graduate once they finish the standard curriculum. They can submit an application to stay and take AP classes for subjects they're interested in, research and experiment in different field of magic, or work as lecturers."

"And these AP classes—"

"Have mandatory final exams," Lyra cut in. "Official scores, which go on our transcripts, are given on a scale of one through five: a five is eighty percent to one-hundred percent, a four is a sixty percent to eighty percent, and so on. Percentage scores are also released, but are recorded on transcripts at the student's discretion."

The headmaster slid a piece of vellum towards her. Lyra glanced at it, seeing her scores from the past five years of study.

 _ **STANDARD CLASSES—CORE CURRICULUM**  
_ _Transfiguration_ (100%) _  
Charms_ (99%) _  
Potions_ (97%) _  
Herbology_ (100%) _  
Astronomy_ (98%) _  
History of Magic_ (94%) _  
Light Magic_ (100%)

 _ **STANDARD CLASSES—ELECTIVES**  
_ _Arithmancy_ (96%) _  
Divination_ (88%) _  
No-Maj History and Studies_ (100%) _  
Ancient History and Studies_ (100%) _  
Ancient Runes_ (100%) _  
Magical Theory and Metaphysics_ (97%)  
 _Magical Languages: The Basics_ (97%)  
 _Magical Creatures_ (100%)

 _ **AP CLASSES**  
_ _AP Transfiguration Theory & Computation _( **5** —89%)  
 _AP Transfiguration Spellcasting_ ( **5** —95%)  
 _AP Charms Theory & Computation _( **5** —92%)  
 _AP Charms Spellcasting_ ( **5** —100%) _  
AP Potions Theory & Computation_ ( **5** —100%) _  
AP Potions Laboratory Technique & Skill_ ( **5** —100%)  
 _AP Herbology_ ( **5** —100%)  
 _AP Healing & Medicine_ ( **5** —90%) _  
AP Light Magic Theory & Practical _( **5** —100%)  
 _AP Neutral Magic Theory & Practical _( **5** —100%)  
 _AP Dark Magic Theory & Practical _( **5** —91%)  
 _AP Arithmancy Theory & Computation_ ( **5** —86%)  
 _AP Runic Spellcasting Theory & Practical _( **5** —97%) _  
AP Computational Metaphysics_ ( **5** —87%) _  
AP Magical Languages: Evaliir_ ( **5** —96%)  
 _AP Magical Languages: Drogo-ti'esh_ ( **5** —100%) _  
AP Magical Languages: Parseltongue_ ( **5** —96%) _  
AP Magical Languages: Merspeak_ ( **5** —82%) _  
AP Magical Languages: Ghuk'lias_ ( **5** —99%)

"How did you manage to take so many classes?" asked Dippet.

Lyra shrugged. "I self-studied, and lectures continue during the summer months. It is quite easy to pass the standard exams—they are pure memorization and recitation of facts."

There was a pause.

"I'll put you down for NEWT level Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Herbology, Astronomy, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Magical Theory, and Magical Creatures," said Dumbledore, smiling crookedly. "Erhivast wrote to me. He also suggested the use of modified Polyjuice Potion, the formula you came up with."

"Polyjuice, Albus? Is that truly—"

"Necessary? Yes. Grindewald has lost Lyra again, and it is imperative that he shall not find her."

Dippet sighed. "Very well, I trust you with her case, Albus. Hogwarts will provide for her, and provide sanctuary while she needs it."

The ginger-haired Transfiguration professor strode to the door, pausing by Lyra's chair.

"Come, child," he said. "We have much to discuss, and I am sure Valkyr is anxious to see you."


	4. Jazz is Good for the Soul

Lyra stared at her disillusioned hands as she followed Professor Dumbledore through the stone corridors. Eventually, they reached a portrait, which the professor pushed open to reveal his office.

Lyra stepped inside, once again being tapped on the head. As Professor Dumbledore moved to his desk, she examined the chamber.

It was a warm space with wide windows that opened to a view of the sun setting over some sort of pitch that had three hoops on either end. Lyra found the office to be overly bedecked in scarlet and gold, tapestries of lions covering the walls. Around the room were many small, curious silver objects, spinning and hooting and whistling. A small, wrinkled bird perched on a stand over a pile of ashes, swaying slightly and flapping its down-covered feathers.

"Gingersnap?"

Lyra turned to see Professor Dumbledore standing behind a desk, his hand stuck halfway into a ceramic jar.

"No, thank you, sir."

The professor gestured to a plush comfy chair, also in red, in front of his desk. Lyra eased herself into it, her back rigid. The professor merely contemplated her, sucking on a sherbet lemon.

"How much did the elder tell you?"

"The circumstances of your arrival, and a suggested plan of action given your…parentage."

There was a brief pause.

Then Lyra said, quietly, tensely, "You must hate me, sir."

The professor smiled crookedly. "Uncle Albus, I insist. And I will not hold the faults of a father as those of his child. Now, let us discuss a plan of action. How skilled are you at Occlumency?"

* * *

Even at nine-thirty in the evening, there were many students milling about the hallways, though Lyra noted that the numbers were primarily composed of older students and those with small silvery badges reading "PREFECT" adorning their robes. They greeted Professor Dumbledore as the two of them passed by, though Lyra steered clear of the crowds. After all, how strange would it be for one of the students to bump into someone they could not see?

The journey from the Transfiguration office to the Potions dungeons took far longer than Lyra had expected. The many staircases, wide and sweeping, narrow and rickety—one hundred and forty-two, Professor Dumbledore said—were all moving as they walked, forever taking them up instead of down, right instead of left. There were trick steps that Lyra nearly lost her footing on, and steps that fell through as she put her foot on them. Eventually, they found themselves in front of a heavy-set oak door. Lyra frowned when she heard voices drifting from within, laughter, and the clanging and scraping of dinnerware. Professor Dumbledore raised his hand, banging the doorknocker, the reverberating _clang_ of the rusted iron against the wood being closely followed by the sounds of a chair scraping and feet, sounding as if they belonged to a rather portly man, treading towards the door.

 _Forty-seven seconds_ , Lyra counted. Given the man's gait, heels clicking against the cobbled floor, she estimated him as coming from sixty-eight feet away. There was a clanging sound as a podgy man who greatly reminded her of a walrus drew the door open.

"Ah, Albus!" said the walrus man, jovially. "What brings you here? Care to join the party?"

"No, but thank you, Horace. I have a guest who will wait in your office, however; perhaps she will appreciate the gathering. Do call me when the festivities are over, for we have many things to discuss."

With that, Dumbledore waved his wand over Lyra's head before tapping the tip gently on her hair. As she began to see herself again, she noted that she was now in an aubergine shirt-dress, a snood of the same color perching on her now perfectly coiffed curls, and an adjoined lace veil obscuring the upper half of her face from view. She frowned at how her riding boots gave a ridiculous twist to her attire, and silently transfigured them into kitten heels and stockings with a garter belt. The knives strapped to her legs were now well hidden by the garters, a concealing charm placed on their holsters.

"Lyra," said Dumbledore, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "Horace Slughorn, professor of Potions. Horace, meet Lyra."

Lyra swept into a low curtsy, bowing her head slightly. "Well met, Professor Slughorn. My sincerest and greatest thanks to you, for without your care I would be already among the realm of the dead."

"You're very much welcome, Lyra m'dear. Do come in and make yourself comfortable. I am holding a small end-of-year gathering for some of my students—only the best and brightest, mind you—and you'll find yourself in some excellent company."

Professor Dumbledore gestured her inside with a jerk of his chin before striding off. The portly Potions professor closed the dungeon door behind her, and Lyra subconsciously tensed, hands ready to draw her knives.

But the man waddled off, and Lyra hesitantly followed him.

The Potions dungeon was a large space, lined with cold, dark stone which bore the burns and scars of corrosion from improperly brewed potions. Cauldrons and stirring spoons—pewter; Lyra frowned at the choice of poor-quality metal—were stacked on the dented workbenches. Pickled ingredients floating in glass jars lined the walls. In a far corner, water spewed into a pool from the mouth of gargoyle, reflecting the small fires from hanging lamps. In another corner, a door opened into an adjacent, light-filled room from which soft jazz crooned, the sound of laughter and dancing and silverware against china flowing out. It was through this door that Lyra followed Professor Slughorn.

She was momentarily surprised by the vivacity in the room: couples swinging in time, girls laughing and nibbling on profiteroles, boys lounging and smoking wizarding cigarettes with their school uniforms slightly undone in practiced ease, drinks—alcohol, she thought, likely firewhiskey—passed around freely, the image so far from her expectations of their behavior at ten-o'clock at night. Such behavior she had only seen exhibited when she performed at No-Maj clubs, where most patrons were in their early twenties. Even though Maj-folk were considered adults at the age of seventeen, MACUSA had decreed, in accordance with No-Maj law, that no wizard or witch under the age of twenty-one could be a customer at a No-Maj club. By comparison, wizarding pubs in America were rather tame, the alcohol in their drinks only a slight fraction of the percentage in No-Maj counterparts.

As she was caught up with the _newness_ of it all, Professor Slughorn excused himself to stand some photographs with several students. Lyra vaguely acknowledged his departure, almost snorting at how the girls bungled the swing in their clunky wedges and evening gowns. The swing was simply not meant to be danced in floor-length, ermine-hemmed silk evening gowns; it was, after all, a free-spirited dance.

 _Valkyr,_ she said, _have a look at this._

 _Took you long enough to remember to talk to me,_ he grumbled, but complied and looked through her eyes. Unlike his rider, Valkyr _did_ snort, in equal parts disbelief and humor.

 _Hang on,_ he said, _who're they?_

Lyra looked across the room, where adults of many appearances strolled about, occasionally conversing with the students and with Slughorn. She observed each in turn, noting her deductions to Valkyr.

 _Man, weedy, approximately forty years of age, tired-looking. Creased, standard uniform black pants. Dress shoes of regulation quality. Suit, again standard, untailored. Manicured hands, neatly groomed but simple appearance. Government office worker._

 _Man, rotund, approximately sixty years of age, pompous demeanor. Uniform black pants, tailored? Dress shoes scuffed, but of finer quality. Suit tailored. Well groomed. Stands slightly before the first man. Head of government office, likely the first man's boss._

 _Man, slender, looks to be in early twenties. Tailored black dress robes, 24-carat gold buttons, excellent quality. Shoes of fine Italian leather, shined well. Impeccably groomed. Back straight, holds self with pride. Condescending expression. If patterns are anything to go by, scion to a wealthy, likely pureblood, house._

 _Woman, escorted on the left arm of the man, slender, early twenties. Expensive dress, lavish jewels, at least one of which is an heirloom. Flaunting money. Hair done by a French hairdresser. Back rigid, steps gliding. Heavy-lidded, arrogant. One ring on left ring finger; betrothed, not bound. Heiress, likely pureblood._

 _Man, fit, mid-thirties. Hand bone structure altered, calluses visible. Taut abdomen, slight limp. Frame has broad shoulders and chest. Catches admiring and flirting glances from girls. Likely a Quodpot—no, it's known as Quidditch in Europe—player. Recruiting?_

Just then, a slight girl, no older than thirteen, caught her eye. The girl was pale with dark hair and a hooked nose, and was small for her age—four-foot ten at most, a good head shorter than Lyra, who stood at five-foot five. Well, five-foot six if she counted the heels. Unlike the other girls at the party, this one was not dressed lavishly, decked in a simple black dress and oxford heels. The girl sat stiffly on a chair in a secluded corner, quietly observing the party with a look of intense discomfort on her face. As Lyra watched, three older boys with scarlet and gold lions embroidered on their blazers, likely sixteen or seventeen years of age, approached the girl with drawn wands and disgusted looks on their faces.

"Look at the slimy snake, greasy little thing. Hiding in the corner, aren't you?" said one of them, cruelly, twirling his wand between his fingers as the girl's knuckles turned white. Lyra gritted her teeth, brushing her fingertips to her lips and painting them with the most vicious shade of siren red.

"That's right!" piped in another one. "No one wants you here. Go home to the ditch where you belong. _Furnunculus!"_

Lyra flicked her wrist and, in front of the girl, erected a blue _Protego_ _Duo_ shield of such potency that the boil-producing hex rebounded with a sharp _crack_ and hit the caster, flinging him to the ground as painful pimples broke out on his skin. All activity ground to a halt, music dying off into stunned silence as everyone turned to stare at the fallen boy. His other two companions looked about wildly, attempting to find the producer of the _Protego._

"Well, well, _well,_ " drawled Lyra, lilting her voice in a perfected Irish accent, red lips drawn into a cruel smirk as she sauntered towards them with subtly swaying hips. "What might we have here?" She stopped in front of the boys, cocking her head to the left and noting with pleasure that their Adam's apples bobbed as they swallowed. "Could you… _gentlemen_ …explain why you are terrorizing my cousin?"

"Er..." as the boys stuttered, Lyra took the opportunity to lightly brush the girl's mind.

 _Eileen Prince, twelve years old, just finished her second year. Potions prodigy and member of the Gobstones Club._

"Well," said Lyra, her tone light yet somehow biting, "if you have nothing to say for your atrocious conduct, we'll be off. Come, Eileen, these brutes are clearly no more of intellectuals than gorillas in a Muggle zoo, capable only of bullying twelve-year-olds with rudimentary hexes that most wizards learn at eleven."

At this, the girl's eyes widened, and Lyra grabbed her hand before the girl could protest, dragging her off and away from the three boys. She turned her back and taken less than three steps when a voice shouted, _"Mucus ad Nauseum!"_

With a snap of her fingers behind her back, Lyra conjured another _Protego Duo_ , listening with satisfaction as the curse ricocheted off the shield and hit the caster. She fired _Expelliarmus_ and _Petrificus Totalus_ as well, listening as three wands followed by three bodies hit the floor before she turned slowly, spinning on her heel, mouth set in a hard, unforgiving line. She was well aware of the looks she was getting, and the intrigue of several students bearing a serpent design on their robes.

"Yet another first-year spell; clearly, you three are even less intelligent than I gave you credit for. And casting a spell a spell at unarmed ladies while their backs are turned? How _despicable_ and _cowardly_. Yet you somehow dare to bear the courageous and chivalrous lion on your robes. Why, for shame!"

Releasing Eileen's hand, she strode over to three prostrate bodies, waving her hand and releasing the petrification spell.

"Now," she sneered as they sat up, "I'll show you some _proper_ hexes." Waving her hand in linked motions, she wordlessly fired off three spells in rapid succession, casting triads of each. _Calvario, Gallifors, Epoximise._ There were now three featherless chickens—one of which was covered in boils, another by boogies—stuck together, flapping about pathetically on the dungeon floor.

"Chickens. Very fitting." Then Lyra approached Eileen again, taking the younger girl's hand and striding off to an unoccupied table. The younger girl blushed fiery red under the bewildered, bemused, and scrutinizing stares of the rest of the company. Lyra smiled softly.

Eventually, the attention drained away from them and the party continued as enthusiastically as before.

"What was that?" hissed the younger girl, turning to stare at Lyra. "You are obviously _not_ my cousin, so how do you know my name?"

Lyra glanced around, then lifted her veil so only Eileen could see the entirety of her face. Pale eyes shining gently, she dropped the Irish accent and joked, "Well, I had to intimidate them somehow, y'know?" Then, more seriously, "There are a few things that I hate, few enough for me for me to count off on my fingers. Bullies are one of them, especially those who pick on targets they believe to be weaker than themselves. Leave the three of them be. I trust that their time as naked, bald chickens will be humiliating, just deserves that are long overdue. As for your name, I apologize for the intrusion, but I brushed your mind. Don't worry, I didn't see any memories. But you are quite the potions prodigy, aren't you? I play gobstones as well."

The younger girl had first tensed at this, then relaxed slightly, smiling a bit at the last part. "What's your name, and how come I haven't seen you before?"

"Ah," said Lyra. "First promise me that you will not reveal to anyone what I will tell you without my explicit consent."

"I swear," said the girl, solemnly, as her magic crackled with the promise.

"My name is Lyra Drakonia. I'm going to transfer here next year."

"So you're the one who landed in the middle of the Great Hall during breakfast."

Lyra flinched, startled at the girl's deductive capabilities. "Yes," she agreed, finally, "I am. Say, it's the end of the year party. Let's not talk about the bad things now. Want to dance?"

The girl ducked her head in embarrassment. "I don't know how."

"Not a problem." Lyra subtly flicked her finger subtly, sending two charms at the girl's feet, one for her to dance the swing, and the other to lower her inhibitions. "You'll pick up the swing in no time."

"I will if you teach me how to do wordless and wandless spells."

Lyra laughed. "Deal."

As the song ended, Lyra pointed her finger at the record player, thinking of the energetic drum beats, the rhythmic melody of the trombones and trumpets, the swinging harmony of the piano chords, and the clarinet improvisations that had America falling in love with the jazz piece. She dropped her veil and pulled Eileen out into the middle of the dance floor just as _Sing, sing, sing_ performed by Barry Goodman began to play.

It took only two steps for the charm to kick in, and Lyra spun the younger girl around in the Jitterbug swing, their heels clacking in time on the stone floor. Lyra grinned at the smile on Eileen's face as she spun the younger girl, leading her across the room in a series of side-by-side cross kicks and graceful pelvic twists that left the other students in jaw-dropped amazement. Eileen laughed as they swung their arms and spun around, their shorter, calf-length dresses daringly flaring out around their thighs, their movements freer and naturally undulating, the envy of other couples who tried to follow them. Taking a liberty, Lyra muttered a stasis charm as she grabbed Eileen around the waist and swung the younger girl, flipping the girl over her head. She spun and caught her as Eileen screamed and laughed. As the five minutes of the song ended, Lyra twirled Eileen one more time, dipping the younger girl. As they curtsied and left the dance floor, Eileen looked up at her with flushed face and shining eyes, attempting to catch her breath.

"I've never…what was that?"

"The Jitterbug swing. It's one of the most popular swing dances in America."

"So that's where you're from!" exclaimed Eileen wistfully. "America sounds like such a cheerier place than here."

Lyra stumbled as the images swam before her eyes. The starved, gaunt, haggard looks during the depression, the anger and sadness that swept the country when Pearl Harbor was bombed, the wails and screams of the wizarding America as Scourers stormed a pub and brutally murdered men, women, and children alike, the sadness and loss she felt when she was forced to obliviate her adoptive No-Maj parents as Rappaport's Law of Wizarding Secrecy was tightened, the dead faces of President of MACUSA Seraphina Picquery, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Percival Graves, and Headmaster Agilbert Fontaine after they opposed Grindelwald, the glazed eyes and haunted faces of her classmates as Ilvermorny fought desperately for weeks against Grindelwald's men, the fire of the dragon riders as they were forced to burn their home to the ground to initiate the castle's ultimate defenses. A sharp tug to her hand grounded her, brought her back to the present. She looked down to see Eileen staring at her with wide eyes.

"Lyra?"

"Sorry, I didn't catch that. What did you say?"

Eileen looked at her sharply. "I didn't. You just stood there, unmoving. Is everything alright?"

 _No,_ thought Lyra. But she said, "Everything will be."

She sighed, listening to the soft crooning of the slow song on the gramophone. "You know," she said, turning to Eileen, "we Americans say that jazz is excellent for the soul, especially when one feels so sad."

"And you feel sad?"

Lyra didn't answer. At that moment, the magically amplified sound of a fork tapping a crystal goblet echoed across the space. She looked up to see Professor Slughorn beaming as conversation and music died away and everyone's attention focused on him. Satisfied, Slughorn placed the fork on the tray of a nearby waiter.

"A toast!" he exclaimed, slurring his vowels. Lyra frowned—was he _drunk?_ Holy mother of Champy, British wizards were even worse at holding their liquor than Rhianne, and that said a lot. At least Rhianne was a fun drunk; this man just resembled a blobfish.

"A toast to Tom, m'boy!" Lyra winced. Whoever this 'Tom' was, she felt sorry for him. Her eyes subtly swept the room and found a tall, slender boy making his way towards Slughorn, who was still smiling beatifically.

"To Tom, who saved Hogwarts by taking such decisive action with such courage against the acromantula that was responsible for the petrification of many students over these past months! For avenging the death of Miss Myrtle Warren!"

The answering cries of "To Tom!" and raised goblets blurred into the background. Lyra was running through her memory palace, tearing books off the shelves, flipping frantically through every piece of information on magical creatures.

 _Acromantulas, I_ need _to know about_ acromantulas!

Then the page lay in front of her eyes and she gasped at her conclusion, thrown out of her mind with jarring force. She unconsciously slackened her grip on Eileen's hand, lips parted in horror, prompting the younger girl to look at her, confused. But Lyra paid the girl no mind, focal vision zeroed in on the boy who stood with Slughorn's arm draped on his shoulder, the boy whose clothes were, though neat and impeccably cared for, obviously—and painfully so—secondhand, the boy whose dark wavy hair and pale, chiseled, aristocratic features made him seem an angel with a face like sin.

It was like hearing everything underwater and seeing everything in slow motion. The voices distorted, blurred, the thumping of her blood resonating in her eardrums. The colors bled together in her periphery as she narrowed her eyes on the boy, his face turning and head bowing ever so slightly, the perfect blush—too perfect to be genuine—blossoming on his high cheekbones. He smiled softly, but Lyra saw the smirk hidden, almost imperceptible, in the corner of his red mouth, saw the cold triumph winking in his dark eyes.

She wondered how many secrets this boy held in the darkest corners of his soul, how many people he had charmed with charisma and a face that could bed almost any woman. She wondered at the horrors that lay behind his mask.

And she shivered, remembering the acromantulas, wondering how he had lied to all these people.

 _Acromantula venom is highly toxic. In small doses, it causes clamminess, ataxia, and dizziness. In large doses, it can render a person comatose and induce organ failure and death. Other than its role as a rare catalyst in potent healing drafts, it has no other side effects or uses, not being known to cause hallucination, sweating, bloating, tachycardia, nausea, paralysis, or petrification._

 _Not being known to cause paralysis or petrification._


	5. A Bastard Called Grindelwald

Lyra was numb as she said goodbye to Eileen, watching the other students file out. Several students looked at her curiously as she perched on Eileen's chair in the corner, mouth set in an inscrutable line. Eventually, all of the students departed, and Professor Slughorn closed the dungeon door.

"Now then," he said, turning to Lyra, "let's call Professor Dumbledore."

From an ornate, serpent-shaped glass vase on his mantelpiece, Professor Slughorn withdrew a pinch of a dark green powder, throwing it into his fireplace.

"Transfiguration office!"

A moment later, Albus Dumbledore stepped through the fireplace, dusting soot from his robes. Lyra shook herself, clearing her mind and fileing away her memories. She could wait to analyze them.

 _Ah, so Floo works between the castle's fireplaces._

Slughorn beckoned them to take seats in comfy chairs around a recently vacated table.

"Tea? Biscuits? Cake?"

Lyra politely declined, and Professor Dumbledore accepted the tray of biscuits, waving away the proffered drinks. As he was picking among the sugar cookies, Lyra ended the transfiguration of her clothes, earning a startled yelp from the Potions professor. She raised an eyebrow at the spluttering man.

"Yes, I am aware that no proper witch should be wearing clothes that display the exact shape of her body. However, I do not think the robes that befit proper witches are practical for my daily activities. Besides, Transfigurations are much like glamour charms: they are not permanent and drain energy for as long as they are cast. I don't fancy draining my energy on clothes."

"Wha―"

"Dresses and loose trousers―any loose clothing in fact―hinders one's ability to fly."

There was a brief pause.

"Who _are_ you?" said Slughorn.

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. "Horace, meet Lyra, heiress of the Ancient, most Noble, and most Powerful House of Drakonia."

Slughorn paled. Lyra felt her mouth twitch, and turning to Dumbledore, she said, "Couldn't have given him a warning, could you?"

"You did give him a fright this morning when you toppled down in the middle of the Great Hall. I believe, Horace, if I remember correctly, that you shrieked and toppled out of your chair. Now that introductions are over and done with," Dumbledore said pointedly at his blinking colleague, "we must discuss matters of more importance."

Lyra sat quietly as Professor Dumbledore Flooed his other colleagues. Headmaster Dippet emerged from the fireplace, followed by Professor Merrythought and Madam Celandine. A small man with grubby clothes and a small goatee followed next, introduced as Herbert Beery, Professor of Herbology. Then a stern-looking woman who was introduced as Luscinia Carmenis, Professor of Charms and greatly reminded Lyra of a bird. Lyra thanked both profusely for saving her life, at which the grubby man beamed and the stern professor softened slightly.

Finally, a few moments after Professor Dumbledore flooed the staffroom, a small group tumbled out all at once, nearly landing pell-mell on one another. She was hurriedly introduced to Aurora Sinistra, Professor of Astronomy; Bathsheda Babbling, Professor of Ancient Runes; Septima Vector, Professor of Arithmancy; Alexander Myndus, Professor of Divination; the ghost of Cuthburt Binns, who taught History of Magic; Silvanus Kettleburn, who taught Care of Magical Creatures; Maxim Belthis, who taught Muggle Studies; and Vesta Donnelley, who taught Household Management.

When they were all seated with their biscuits, Lyra enjoyed the brief silence before she realized that everyone was staring at her. Glancing at Professor Dumbledore's encouraging face, she started her story.

"I will begin in December of 1926, when a British wizard by the name of Newt Scamander arrived in New York City with a suitcase full of magical creatures." A sharp inhale from all present greeted her.

"Upon leaving the harbor, he encountered a gathering of No-Majs who called themselves the 'Second Salemers' of the New Salem Philanthropic Society. The leader, a woman named Mary Lou Barebone, was preaching about the existence of witches and how these people should be hunted down and burnt at the stake. Distracted, Scamandar did not notice when several creatures escaped from his suitcase. In a wild goose chase of sorts, he managed to track down the creature—a Niffler, from what I know—in a bank, somehow dragging a No-Maj named Jacob Kowalski with him. Scamander attempted to obliviate Kowalski, but failed when the No-Maj hit him over the head with his suitcase. He was found by the then ex-Auror Porpentina Goldstein and taken before Head of the Department of Magical Security Percival Graves. Auror Graves demanded to see said suitcase, only to find pastries, and at that point Scamander realized that he had switched suitcases with the No-Maj."

"Scamander left with Goldstein to track down said No-Maj. What no one figured out until later was that a supporter of Gellert Grindelwald had been working in the same office, and had heard the entire exchange. As Auror Graves was patrolling the city for these creatures, Grindelwald attacked and subdued him, seizing his wand and imprisoning him in the vaults of Gisir Wizarding Bank, from where it is impossible to escape. As Scamander and the rest of the Auror force was busy retrieving the magical creatures, Grindelwald pursued a prophecy he had overheard of a magical child with significant power; a child, who abused, became possessed by an Obscurial."

"This child turned out to be Credence Barebone, adoptive son of Mary Lou Barebone. Grindelwald had assumed Credence's adopted sister, Modesty, to be the child, and so made the horrible mistake of calling Credence a 'worthless Squib.' Credence, who up to that time had kept his obscurial in check with minimal—I mean gas leak minimal—incident, allowed, for the first time, the obscurial to run rampant. The auror force, along with Goldstein and Scamander, attempted to stop him: the aurors by killing him, Goldstein and Scamander by calming him. In attempting to subdue him, the aurors managed to almost entirely remove the sane part of Credence. In suicidal desperation, the shard of Credence's sanity that was left ended the obscurial, and, for lack of a better word, imploded on itself."

"Furious, Grindelwald, still in the guise of Auror Graves, launched a full on attack. He nearly managed to defeat them before he was exposed and apparated away. The real Percival Graves was found a few hours later, severely dehydrated and slightly worse for wear, but he made a full recovery. The Department of Magical Security employed Scamander's Thunderbird to spread an amnesiac potion among the No-Majs, all of whom promptly forgot the incident."

"My story now jumps forward a little more than a decade. Three years ago, Grindelwald once again came to America, this time before America's wizarding government, the Magical Congress of the United States of America, or as we all refer to it, MACUSA. He approached the president re-elect, Seraphina Picquery, proposing an alliance. I do not know what possessed him to do such a thing, especially _after_ he launched an attack on America. Perhaps he thought that the threat of destruction would cow President Picquery into joining his side. But then, Grindelwald never understood the American character, the refusal to bow down to a dictator."

"I think there is no need to stretch my story on by detailing what words they used, but the end result was that she declined, politely telling him in slightly more words than I will use that he was a sick bastard, that she had no interest of involving wizarding America with his affairs, and that his ideas were cruel and selfish, denouncing his 'For the Greater Good' campaign as a ruse to secure his own power. She said that America, a country founded by No-Majs and New-Majs in the name of freedom and equality would in no way support a man whose desires were to oppress and control others, and again, more politely, told him to scram out of America."

"Of course, by then Grindelwald had already begun his assault on Europe, both through magical and No-Maj means. With Hitler and the Axis powers securely under his thumb, Grindelwald planned to wreak mass destruction on the No-Maj world. A year after President Picquery's refusal of aid and declaration of neutrality, Grindelwald used his No-Maj Japanese forces, and attacked and bombed Pearl Harbor, an auror outpost in the middle of the Pacific Ocean that had been disguised as a No-Maj military base. I would like to point out that the Japanese wizarding government, while very blood elitist, was neutral in the war and in no way authorized the No-Maj attack, as wizarding Japan has been an ally to MACUSA for many years."

"While both wizarding and No-Maj America were still reeling from shock, Grindelwald stormed MACUSA headquarters in New York, murdering President Picquery and Auror Graves. It was ill-fated that on said day, Headmaster Fontaine and one of the professors had taken a few of Ilvermorny's students to present research findings in front of the Congress, myself among those students. We saw the Congress fall, and I saw Grindelwald strike down the Headmaster before the other professor apparated us away. We arrived at Ilvermorny just in time to warn the other students, for not twenty minutes later, Grindelwald's forces arrived at Mount Greylock and began to attack the school. We managed to beat them back, and they laid siege to us for two years. During those two years, the professors pooled us all together and crammed into us everything they knew. The time and circumstances necessitated their actions, and by the end of a few months, all of us, even the underclassmen, could duel and best the professors. Ilvermorny has had her highest number of graduates and her highest exam results during those two years."

"It was a fortnight ago that they attacked. It's been constant fighting until a day—no, two days now. Too many of the students and professors died, as well as parents who apparated in to defend their children. On the day that the professors decided to surrender, a mentor instructed me and four of my friends to activate the castle's final protection for its children, an activation which required us to burn down the entirety of the castle, save its main keep, with dragon fire."

Lyra heard surprised gasps, but plowed on. "Of course, there's no way you can inconspicuously burn down a large castle with four dragons and their riders. Grindelwald's men saw us, and by extension, Grindelwald himself. With that in mind, our mentor approached us that night, June the thirteenth, proposing to send us off to different magical schools around the world, as he knew that Grindelwald would go great lengths to procure himself dragons. We were to sleep the night and depart at the break of dawn, at which time the castle's final defense would be ready and the other students and professors would go into hiding. We were not prepared for them to attack at two-thirty in the morning of the fourteenth. It was a lucky chance that I awoke and saw the attackers. I alerted my friends, and they managed to herd the students and professors into safety while completing the defenses. I was tasked with holding off the attacking forces. Grindelwald's men eventually broke past the wards I set up, but thankfully at that point everyone else had reached safety. They managed to hit me with several curses as I escaped, the most serious of which were the bone-breaking curse and the blood-expulsion curse. Thus, my frightful appearance in the Great Hall this morning."

There was a pregnant pause.

"I am skeptical of this story," sniffed Professor Donnelley. "There's a reason that the Ministry of Magic classifies them as _XXXXX_ , known wizard killing beasts that are impossible to train or domesticate. You'd be crazy to attempt to ride one."

Lyra saw Professor Dumbledore open his mouth, but she swiftly cut him off before he could say a word.

"I understand, madam, as I would question my own sanity be that the case. Can I trust you, all of you, to keep a secret?"

There were nods around the room, most solemnly, some incredulously, others grumbling.

"The briefest explanation I can give you without delving too deeply into ancient history is this: most of the wizarding world, said Ministry of Magic included, is aware only of twelve species of pure-bred dragons. In ancient texts, those species are referred to as the _Hahlorkh Newetik_ , the _Bestialis_ , or in the common tongue, 'beasts without honor.' They are, just as you said, 'wizard killing beasts that are impossible to train or domesticate.'"

"Your point being?" interrupted Professor Donnelley, still with a dubious expression on her face.

"The ancient texts also refer to several species as the _Drogo Athkwraye_. I don't have an exact translation for that name, but _Drogo_ means 'dragon' and _Athkwraye_ 'friend.' These species are highly intelligent, much more so than Maj-kind. Unfortunately, a very long time ago, the elves—no, not those 'house-elves'; I mean the Olden Maj-folk—did not know this and treated them as they did the _Bestialis._ This was a grave but conceivable error, as the _Bestialis_ were species cast out by the _Drogo Athkwraye_ for committing grievous crimes. Enraged, the _Drogo Athkwraye_ waged war. There were devastating losses, and it took a betrayal from both sides to create peace. In short, Maj-folk promised to respect and honor the dragons, and the dragons gave some of their eggs to Maj-folk, pledging that those hatchlings would soul-bond with Maj-children. There is an expression, 'the wand chooses the wizard,' and likewise, the dragon chooses the rider."

Lyra noted that Professor Donnelley now looked accepting of her story, but that there was a question in Professor Carmenis's eyes.

"Over the centuries," said Professor Dumbledore, also noting Carmenis's questioning face, "as the Olden Maj-folk dwindled and hid away, they took the secret of the dragons with them. The story of both the Olden Maj-folk and of the dragons is highly classified: MACUSA guards it with an Unspeakable level of secrecy, and the greater lot of wizarding America knows next to nothing about the dragons, save that they exist, and nothing about the Olden Maj-folk dwelling there. A select few in the world know that the Olden Maj-folk are still alive, though they know neither how many nor where. I myself did not know the whole story until eight-o'clock this morning, when I read a letter addressed to me by Lyra's mentor, himself of the Olden people, and who so happens to be an old friend of mine. It is for this reason that I wish all of you to swear an oath of secrecy that you will not repeat what you have just heard."

The professors and headmaster all repeated the oath, this time every one of them convinced.

"You poor dear," said Merrythought. "Why, that bastard Grindelwald―I completely agree with President Picquery's assessment!"

Lyra cringed as Dumbledore drooped slightly.

The small man with the goatee―Cheery, no, Cherry wasn't right―cut in gently. "My dear, am I correct in assuming that you will be attending Hogwarts next year?"

Lyra nodded. _Help me out, Valkyr?_

 _His name is Herbert_ Beery, _little one. Really, do at least_ try _to remember the names of the people who save your life._

"You are, Professor Beery. I will be attending as a seventh year."

"Excellent! You wouldn't mind trying out for a play then? I'm thinking about doing the 'Fountain of Fair Fortune' next year, with Headmaster Dippet's permission of course. You'd be a perfect Althea, perhaps an Amato as well!"

This statement was met with collective groans, and Lyra fought the urge the laugh.

"I'm afraid that shan't work, sir," she said apologetically. "You see, I've got to be disguised, and I don't think the student population would laud a lovesick Amata played by a boy."

 _"_ _A boy?"_ cried Dippet.

"Yes, that _is_ my plan," Lyra sighed. "I'm prepared to brew a modified Polyjuice Potion from scratch to achieve that end."

"Dearie," said Professor Donnelley, turning to her with a serious expression, though Lyra could see that the professor was working hard to keep her mouth from twitching, "for the sake of Headmaster's sanity, I beg you to reconsider. Though I would find it, uh, _interesting_ , you'd have to share a dormitory with disgustingly hormonal teenage boys, not to mention undergo the horrors of being potty trained― _again."_

"Really Vesta, it's not that hard. You just _point_ and _shoot."_

Lyra grinned as she looked at a blushing Professor Donnelley, who was shooting Professor Belthis a look of utter consternation.

 _Five dragots they'll be together by the end of the year,_ said Valkyr.

 _Come on, it'll be a couple more months than that. Ten dragots she'll play hard to get._

"Modified Polyjuice, you say?" Slughorn was peering at her.

"Yes, sir. Professor Dumbledore has been so kind as to agree to bring me to Diagon Alley tomorrow. With proper ingredients and a copper cauldron, I estimate the brew to be done in twenty-three days. It will allow me to create a new identity, instead of assuming one. My original plan was to merely change my hair color and adjust some of facial features, but Grindelwald's men heard me shout 'Hogwarts' before I left. As it was completely dark when I left near three in the morning, I do not think they knew who I was, but they _must_ have recognized that my voice was a girl's voice. By enrolling in Hogwarts as a boy two years above, I may be able to divert their suspicion and gain some time."

"You're _fifteen?"_ cried Professor Vector. "Good grief!"

* * *

The meeting drew to a close, and Lyra bid them all goodnight as they flooed to their quarters. The Headmaster and Dumbledore escorted her out of the dungeon, once again disillusioning her.

Lyra did her best to memorize the castle, but as they passed the same corridor three times because of the moving stairs, she soon abandoned her goal as a lost cause. Eventually, they stopped before large doors, which Dippet opened slightly.

"Miss, if you would, call your dragon. If he is as intelligent as you accredit him to be and is capable of transfiguration, he may stay in the castle with you."

Lyra rolled her eyes, thankful that she was invisible. _Valkyr?_

 _Yes, little one?_

 _They're going to let you stay with me in the castle. Could you fly up to the main gate and come through the doors as a black cat?_

 _The things I do for you, little one…._

Seeing through Valkyr's eyes, Lyra felt him uncurling himself, stretching and rolling his muscles before he bounded forward and leaped into the air, soaring silently towards the castle. He touched down before the tall iron gate that surrounded the castle, nosing about. She felt the shift, breaking bones and reforming frame, into a black cat, the height difference between the two forms dizzying. Then Valkyr slipped through the bars and trotted up to the doors, and Lyra slipped back into her own vision as Valkyr slinked around the open door and sat at her feet, staring up into—what seemed to Dippet, at least—empty space. Far from that; he was actually boring into Lyra's eyes, his pale blue-green irises almost hypnotic.

"Why, isn't he adorable!" said Professor Dumbledore, to which Valkyr hissed angrily. "How big is he as a dragon?"

Lyra shrugged, her disembodied voice floating through the air. "I stand at five-foot five, and the top of my head is approximately two inches above his withers."

Dippet tsked impatiently. "Let's be off, as I wish to retire for the night."

He closed the main doors, bolts sliding and grinding into place across the heavy oak. Then he spun on his heel and lead them off, Valkyr slinking behind them.

* * *

Several corridors later, Headmaster Dippet stopped in front of a portrait of a snoring knight on a fat gray pony.

"Sir Cadogan?"

The knight slumbered on, and Lyra blinked, confused.

"Sir Cadogan!"

Still, the knight slumbered on, blissfully unaware of the individuals standing two feet from his frame.

"SIR CADOGAN WAKE UP THIS INSTANT!"

At this the knight tumbled off his fat steed, shaking his head confusedly.

"What gallant sir doth inquire my name?" asked the knight. Then, he swiveled his head so that the half-melted visor of his helmet was facing forward.

"Ah! Headmaster Dippet and Professor Dumbledore! Good sirs, might I assist you in your quest?"

Dippet sighed, annoyed by the knight's antics.

"Sir Cadogan, if you please, I am tasking you with guarding the bedroom behind your portrait. A girl and her familiar will be sleeping in the room tonight, but her presence _must_ be a secret! You cannot tell anyone she has been there."

"Goodman Dippet, I do swear on mine honour as a knight of the famed Round Table that I shall keep that promise. My lips are sealed!"

"Good. Also, tomorrow morning Professor Dumbledore will come to guide the girl to the Great Hall at seven-thirty sharp. You are to wake the girl and allow him in. Understood?"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

"Right then. Albus, if you please."

With that, Professor Dumbledore tapped his wand one last time on Lyra's head, ending the disillusionment spell. Sir Cadogan's portrait swung open, revealing a hole in the stone wall behind. With Dippet's signal—a forward jerk of his chin—Lyra clambered through the hole, Valkyr following on her heels. The painting swung shut behind her, and Lyra panicked for a moment before tapping on the painting, which swung open again.

 _So she wasn't locked in. That was good to know._

The painting once again swung shut.

"Remember!" called Dippet's voice from the other side of the canvas, "Seven-thirty sharp!" Then two sets of footsteps faded away.

Lyra took a moment to look around the room. It was well lit, and spacious enough, she supposed. A tad bit larger than Valkyr's stall, but not by much, and there was a thick throw rug on the floor, and a four-poster bed with _satin sheets_.

Definitely an improvement from the Spartan sleeping arrangements she'd had for two years.

Curiosity led her to open a small door, and she found an adjacent bathroom, small and modest, but with running hot water. Again, an improvement from the baths that Ilvermorny students had to draw themselves.

Now the wiser, Lyra cast a revealing spell on her room, and, relieved when she found nothing off kilter, removed her garments and cast a quick _Scourgify_ on them. She washed up and made ready for bed, the lights in the room going out as soon as she slid between the covers. Valkyr sprung up to the mattress next to her, and, feeling safer than she had for a long time, Lyra drifted off to sleep.


	6. Spoiled Brats on Jam

**or, The Prophet Knows Best**

 _She was standing once again in the room. She stood to the left of the dais, head bowed, chin tucked and touching the collar about her neck. To the right of the dais stood a full-length gilded mirror, the metalwork ornate and detailing series of runes about the edges. At the moment, the room was empty, and she stilled her mind, focusing on how the dirty off-white of her threadbare shift dress contrasted painfully with the black slippery stone that lined the floors and walls. Laughing voices began to reach her ears, and her eyes darted upwards. As the heavy ebony doors opened, she forced them down again, exposing her neck submissively. A bloody body was dumped on the floor before the dais as a man swept himself into the throne, rich robes billowing._

 _"_ _Come here, Lyra."_

 _She continued to bow her head as she willed her bare feet to tread against the cold stone, towards the man._

 _"_ _Good girl. Now, you remember that spell I taught you, right?"_

 _She nodded, her frail body trembling with fright._

 _"_ _We're going to practice it. You fail, and I will demonstrate. Am I clear?"_

 _She nodded again. The man passed her a wand, thick and short, made of ugly twisted thorn wood, troll whisker core sticking out of the tip and sparking slightly. She grasped the handle, knuckles white and hand shaking. Composing her face, she raised her eyes with an indifferent expression, eyes muted and dead._

 _A woman was hunched on the floor before them, whimpering slightly. Her dark, curly hair was matted with blood, and chunks of it had been torn from her skull. With her good hand, the woman was clutching at her wrist, which had been twisted a full one-hundred and eighty degrees, and was purple and swollen. Bruises lined her skin, and her rags had been torn about her breasts and thighs._

 _She hid her nausea, knowing full well what had happened to the woman, and swallowed carefully._

"Crucio."

 _The woman writhed, crying out hoarsely. As she watched, the woman's face shifted, and it was Rhianne screaming on the floor. Horrified, she dropped the wand. The screaming stopped, and there was absolute silence from the men present as the wand clattered to the floor._

 _There was a long pause._

 _"_ _Such a disappointment," said the man on the throne. "Weak and useless, just like your sniveling mother." She felt his wand jab between her jutting shoulder blades, prodding painfully at the vertebrae of her back._

 _"_ _Maybe a demonstration would help," the cold voice continued, and, moving the wand from her back, the man pointed it at woman on the floor._

"Crucio."

 _The screams were like broken glass, mingling with her own pleading cries._

 _"_ _I'll be good! I'll be good! I'm a good girl! I've learned! Please! PLEASE!"_

 _And then the wand was turned on her, and the pain was unparalleled. She clenched her teeth, willing herself not to give the man the satisfaction of hearing her screams._

 _THIS._

 _IS._

 _NOT._

 _REAL._

Lyra awoke panting. Valkyr's claws had caught on her undershirt, and his luminous eyes were gazing into her own. She sat up, hugging the cat and cuddling him as she sat up.

 _I'm alright,_ she told him.

 _Shocker that I somehow don't believe you,_ Valkyr replied, dryly.

Lyra sighed. _"Tempus."_

 _Two twenty-five A.M._ , read the clock.

 _Right on time, as usual_ , she said to Valkyr.

 _Every day a little before two thirty in the morning, except for the days that you wouldn't sleep until well past three in the morning. You're suffering, Lyra._

She shrugged in response, slipping out of the bed to brush her teeth and put on her clothes. A thought struck her as she washed her face, and she froze.

 _Say, Valkyr, you do still have your saddlebags, right?_

 _Really?_ Really? _Your faith in me is awe-inspiring. Of course I have them, you dolt, along with everything inside. Shame on you for not remembering to ask me sooner._

Lyra sighed in relief. Walking out of the bathroom, she once again cast a revealing spell, this time linking it with a trace spell. The results satisfied her: no one had been inside her room during the night.

Meanwhile, Valkyr had shifted back to his dragon form, rolling around on the soft rug. Lyra grinned at how much he behaved like a cat—on some days, she wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between the two forms. Shrugging her clothes on and patting the blades into place, she approached him, opening the saddlebag.

 _"_ _Accio cistem arcanum!_ "

After a few seconds, the ebony box flew towards her, and she caught it in one hand, slapping the saddlebag shut with the other. She read the inscription on the box carefully, Valkyr peering over her shoulder.

 _DA ZRE MES SER AKH'AEGIS  
MIR ZRE AKHELBHEN  
SER ARAEGISESS E ARY ARKERYNSUORESS  
OLIN RI ONAL E GYS BELLUTH  
QUESS'AR'TERANTHAVAR  
EZI IQUAR FAERNAA_

 _ZRE GABRETH DHAEROWATHIL E DHAEROWA_  
 _HAHLORKH MHAORIKA NEWETIK_  
 _ZRE VIR MESA SAUROS ARAEL_  
 _VYSHAAN WUTHEH SHESSEPRA EZE Z'RESS_  
 _MIR CUL USKECHE ADOM E KAHARENHARIK KET_  
 _LASZ NAR'TALAS_

 _ZRE BELKAGEN E AETHEN_  
 _MIR SER EVERANTHA E MHAORATHIL SHRINSHEE_  
 _MIR ES'CAERTA_  
 _N'FHAOR EZE FAERZRESS_  
 _IR MORMHAOR_

Lyra translated fluently from the ancient language of Evaliir.

"Given to me is the duty of protection; I, to he whom magic, duty, and honor define, who is a great protector and noble warrior, speak secrets and give him the gifts of the art, a golden grove of hidden knowledge to make him a master mage. To the vicious enemy and the traitors, savage corrupted butchers without honor; to those of rotten heart, power-mad who seek scepter by dominance and force; I, with unrested spirits and the fires of heaven fall, strike him into a frozen soul. To the innocent minds, I am the watchful fortress and bane of corruption, keeper of the secrets of magic. I pray you beware; do not be transformed by power into darkness and undead."

 _Just like Latin, they sure love their clauses, don't they?_

Lyra agreed with his assessment.

Ebony was the wood of secrecy and power and protection; intelligent, it was receptive to enchantments and blood magic. Lyra pondered which language she would use, deciding that the Elder Futhark runes, Anglo-Saxon in origin, were out of the question. They were too widely interpreted, too fickle in their layers and layers of meaning, too emotionless to create blood magic. Evaliir, from the Old Maj-folk? No, in that language one could speak only the truth, but one could say a lot without saying anything at all. She need honesty _and_ directness. Angelic runes, perhaps? They were dangerous, for sure, and could trap her if she wasn't careful. But they were fueled by emotion and provided the strongest magic, and seemed like the best bet she had. Now, to select the rune….

Summoning her Horned Serpent brooch from the saddlebag, Lyra once again drove the pin into her finger, wincing as she painted the rune for equilibrium under the silver engraving. The rune briefly glowed yellow-green before fading into the ebony.

The box popped open, expanding as it did so.

She stared down at it, speechless.

 _Whoa,_ said Valkyr.

»»-¤-««

Lyra was roused from her single-minded efforts by a sharp rapping on the portrait frame, coupled with a slew of archaic greetings from Sir What's-His-Name.

"—why, top of the morning to you, good sir!"

"Lyra? Lyra, it's seven-thirty, and Professor Dippet wants to see you at breakfast."

She frowned at her progress. Seven-thirty? It'd been over four hours and only her right pinky had successfully transitioned into the shadow dimension. How on earth was she to master all the content? Shadow walking was the first and easiest lesson, and four hours had gotten her a pinky into the shadows. A pinky.

Well. Dang nabbit applesauce.

Lyra extracted her pinky from the shadows, which was certainly much easier than fading in. She climbed out of the ebony box, closed it, and slid it back into Valkyr's saddlebag. Treading noiselessly to the portrait, she pressed her mouth near the opening.

"How many times have I entered your office, and what did you first say to me?"

Lyra could hear the amusement in the professor's voice. "Once. I offered you a gingersnap, described what I read in a letter from We-Know-Who, and told you to call me Uncle Albus."

She sighed. "Sir Cadogan, if it is indeed Professor Dumbledore who is standing outside your portrait, please do let him in."

In response, the portrait swung open, and she nodded at Dumbledore as he stepped inside, his robes now periwinkle with purple bands on the sleeves and hem.

"Good morning."

"Good morning," said the professor, who was peering curiously over her shoulder. "He _is_ quite large."

"I suppose so," Lyra said, transfiguring her clothes but never taking her eyes off the man. After a few adjustments, she was satisfied with her vestments, similar in design to those she'd worn to the party yesterday, but this time a deep navy in color. Valkyr shifted back into a cat, springing up onto her shoulders. She nodded at the professor.

"Excellent. Now let us be off, as the headmaster is growing impatient."

As they walked through the already populated corridors, he began to fill her in.

"Now," he said, "the students and staff generally dine in the Great Hall. When we walk in, there will be four tables, for the four houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. The setup is very much like Ilvermorny's, I believe."

"Each of the houses has its own mascot and colors, and is headed by a professor, generally referred to as the Head of House. Gryffindor's mascot is the lion, which symbolizes courage and chivalry, and its colors red and gold. I am Head of Gryffindor. Ravenclaw is represented by the eagle, which was chosen for its wit and wisdom, and its colors are blue and bronze. Professor Carmenis is the Head. Hufflepuff's is a badger, for loyalty and resilience, and its colors are yellow and black. Professor Beery heads the House. Finally, Slytherin is the snake, cunning and ambitious, green and silver, and is headed by Professor Slughorn. I believe Ilvermorny has similar houses?"

Lyra frowned. _He seems to be prejudiced against Slytherin House._ "It does. There is House Wampus of warriors, which represents the body, House Thunderbird of adventurers, which represents the soul, House Horned Serpent of scholars, which represents the mind, and House Pukwudgie of healers, which represents the heart. Students can be chosen by more than one house."

"And if that happens?"

"Then the student chooses where they wish to attend. It is rare for a student to be chosen by all four houses—it generally happens once in a generation. Our late President Picquery, for example."

"And you."

"And me," Lyra admitted. "I, like President Picquery, chose to join House Horned Serpent."

It was then that they passed by a hall displaying four hourglasses, each with the sigil that matched the colors of the jewels inside. The one on the far left was nearly filled with glittering rubies, held up by a rearing lion. Gryffindor, no doubt. Next to it, an hourglass filled slightly with sapphires, supported by an eagle with wings outstretched. Likely Ravenclaw. On the other side of the hall was an hourglass with a few yellow diamonds, perched on the back of a badger. Hufflepuff, perhaps. And on the far right, an hourglass that was half-way filled with emeralds, caught in the coils of a snake. Definitely Slytherin.

"What are those for?"

"Ah, those are the house point tallies," said Dumbledore, following her gaze. "The students' triumphs will earn their houses points, while rule-breaking will lose their house points. Professors and prefects can add or subtract points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor."

 _Well that does not promote unity at all,_ Lyra remarked to Valkyr. _This system does nothing but teach youngsters to stick together in cliques and behave obsequiously. In my book, Ilvermorny has much more solidarity—Wampus is the body, Thunderbird the soul, Horned Serpent the mind, and Pukwudgie the heart. None can survive on their own, but together they are whole and powerful. No wonder Europe is in such a mess._

"—I shall arrange for a copy to be procured." Lyra shook her head.

"Pardon my manners, but I did not catch that."

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. "An excellent book about this school has been written by Professor Bagshot. _Hogwarts, a History,_ I believe it is called. I shall obtain a copy for you."

Lyra tipped her head. "Thank you."

"Of course, my dear."

They continued onwards in amicable silence before reaching the what Professor Dumbledore gestured to be the Great Hall. It had tall walls that reached up wards into a vaulted ceiling that was covered with candles and, as the professor told her, was enchanted to look like the sky above. Four long tables, each decked with the color of a different house, were laid with heaps of food. Already the hall was full of dining students, clanking silverware, and buzzing conversation.

Overlooking the four tables, at the front of the hall, was a long table elevated on a dais—the High Table, Dumbledore said—used to seat all the Hogwarts staff. Headmaster Dippet sat in an ornate chair positioned at the middle of the table, and it was before him that Professor Dumbledore led Lyra.

"Good morning, Headmaster," said Lyra when she stood before him, looking around to make sure that they were out of earshot from the students.

"Good morning, Lady Drakonia," Dippet replied, setting down his knife and fork. "Did you have a restful night?"

"Yes, and I thank you for your hospitality. However, I beseech you not to call me the lady of House Drakonia, for that title still belongs to my grandmother, and shall continue to belong thus until I have performed the ritual of the house."

"Very well," Dippet said. "After breakfast, Professor Dumbledore will floo with you to Diagon Alley, where you will be picking up any items that you will need. Until then, feel free to sit at any table, and enjoy your breakfast."

"Thank you, sir." Then turning to Professor Dumbledore, Lyra asked, "I met a girl yesterday at Professor Slughorn's party—Eileen Prince. What house is she in?"

A brief flicker passed through the professor's face, moving too fast for her to interpret.

"Slytherin," he said, pointing to table to the far right of the High Table, nearest the entrance to the Great Hall. Lyra thanked him, set her back ram-rod straight, and with graceful, gliding steps sauntered over to the table. Noting that Eileen was nowhere to be seen, she slid onto the far end of the long bench, facing the entrance to the Great Hall, taking a plate and helping herself to a small slice of toast. A small pot of something red sat in front of her, as well as a tray of something white.

Hands shaking, she took the butter knife from the right of her plate and tentatively cut at the white block. _Butter_. She spread a little bit on her toast, dipping next into the pot of red stuff. As she ladled a bit of the red thing onto her toast, the smell of strawberries hit her nose. Doing her best to act naturally, Lyra swallowed heavily, her mouth watering and stomach growling furiously. _How long had it been since she'd last ate?_

 _At least fifty-four hours,_ answered Valkyr.

Lyra bit into her toast and almost cried at the taste. _Oh gods,_ the butter. Jam—she hadn't had fruit in over a year. And it was _sweet,_ unlike the unripened apples that had all been eaten within three months.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten something sweet. War time afforded no comforts, especially not to the soldiers.

Feeling disgusted at herself, Lyra put down the toast.

 _What's eating you?_

Lyra shuddered. _Valkyr, how could I have let myself forget for_ one _moment about my friends still stuck in America? Grindelwald_ hates _New-Majs. He's taken over the government, and who knows what will happen to them now?_

 _It's not your fault. You're starving and tired. Eat something; I myself ate a whole deer yesterday, and though I detest raw meat, at least I am no longer hungry._

 _But—_

 _Fine,_ Valkyr huffed. _If you won't listen to me, then at least quit making yourself look like a fool by crying over a half-eaten piece of toast. You've just made yourself look like a knucklehead by flinching away from it. Seriously, little one—have you even_ seen _what the others are eating?_

Lyra sighed and once again took up the toast, chewing dainty bites that tasted like sand.

A few minutes later, Eileen walked in, head bowed, half dragged down by her bookbag. Lyra narrowed her eyes.

 _"_ _Leviora,"_ she muttered quietly.

Eileen's shoulders straightened under the lightened load, and her head snapped up, looking for the source of the spell. Lyra grinned, waving and patting the bench. The younger girl visibly relaxed, walking around the table to take a place at Lyra's right.

"Morning, cuz!" Lyra chirped in the Irish accent.

"Good morning," replied Eileen, who was loading her plate. "To be honest, I didn't think you were going to talk to me again after last night."

 _Lyra,_ broke in Valkyr, _could you get me some of those bacon-wrapped sausage pieces?_

"Why wouldn't l? We're _cousins,_ Eileen, even if not by blood. And family is _always_ there for one another."

The girl was speechless and looked to be on the verge of tears. Lyra said nothing as well, merely embracing the girl to her side.

"Ow!"

Eileen looked startled as Lyra pulled a squabbling Valkyr off her shoulders and set him on the table.

"Yes, I know you want those bacon-wrapped sausage things! Manners!"

She turned apologetically to the younger girl. "Could you pass those—what _do_ you call those?"

Eileen blinked. "Pigs in blankets."

"Sorry what?"

"Pigs. In. Blankets."

"That's nice cuz, could you please pass me some?"

Some moments later, after Lyra's plate had been loaded and Valkyr was munching happily away, Eileen remarked, "That has to be the most unlike-a-cat, cat I've ever seen."

Lyra leaned in conspiratorially. "You can keep another secret, right?"

Eileen nodded.

"He's actually a dragon. Just transfigured for convenience, y'know?"

"Riiight."

"I'm serious."

"So I'm to believe that the thestral from yesterday morning was a dragon as well."

"Yep, the very same who's currently eating bacon-wrapped sausages," said Lyra.

Eileen thumped her head soundly on the oak table, each thump punctuating a word. "PIGS. IN. BLANKETS."

"Yes dearie, that sounds wonderful."

It was then that a loud flapping noise was heard, and Lyra and Valkyr looked up to see several hundred owls flap in through an open window. There were long eared owls and short eared owls, little owls and big owls, tawny owls and barn owls, screech owls and eagle owls, snowy owls and saw-whet owls. As they flew over the tables, Lyra noted that most had envelopes and packages tied to their legs.

"Ah," said Eileen. "The morning owl post. Just on time." The owls flew directly overhead, dropping letters in front of the students as they circled above. A thick rolled up newspaper dropped before Eileen's plate, nearly landing in her glass of…was that pumpkin juice?

"It's _The Daily Prophet,_ " said the younger girl, by means of explanation. "I have a subscription." Eileen unrolled the paper, glancing at the headline before going pale and stuffing the paper away. Lyra raised an eyebrow.

"Should I be concerned?"

"No, no, not at all. Just, ah, some gossip, the scandalous type."

Lyra narrowed her eyes at the younger girl, who had a growing splotchy blush on her cheeks, and who refused to meet her eyes. She sighed, deciding to let the issue drop. To barge into someone's mind for one's own gain was an inexcusable thing. Granted, natural Legilimens like her adopted mother had a harder time reigning in and barring their minds from everyone's thoughts, but still—inexcusable.

A loud, raucous laugh jolted Lyra out of her suspicion, and she raised her head to see a rather pretty girl digging her sharp, emerald-green painted, claw-like nails into a boy's arm.

"How true Abraxas!" she was exclaiming, "What a travesty—a school made up of Mudbloods! Good riddance to the lot, Grindelwald certainly had the right idea."

Lyra turned her head slowly, gritting her teeth as she faced Eileen. The younger girl was shaking, and looked to be sitting on the newspaper she had just gotten by owl post.

"Excuse me for one moment," she said, voice deceptively calm. With serpentine grace, Lyra rose from her seat on the bench and strode over to the middle of the table where the laughing harpy was, ignoring Eileen's protests. Posture straight, chin pointed up, nose scrunched, and mouth set in a sneer, she stopped in front of the girl and crossed her arms.

"What does the likes of _you_ want?" barked the girl. Her companions, eight boys and another girl, swiveled to stare at her with disapproval in their eyes.

"Firstly," snapped Lyra, sweeping the girl's mind, "learn how to address your betters—with respect and deference. Think your bloodline is _pure_? Mine is far more ancient and much purer, with not a single squib on my family tree. Not even the ' _Most Ancient and Noble House of Black,'"_ this she said mockingly, "can compare to _my_ house. As for the likes of _you_ —you aren't even a true Black, merely a cousin only by marriage. You can't hold a candle to me."

Lyra dropped her voice to a dangerously low volume. "I will excuse your ignorance once and only once. It would be wise of you not to make an enemy of me, _dearie._ "

The girl was left gaping, opening and closing her mouth in indignation.

"Secondly, as I have taken that you _gentlemen_ and _lady_ ," Lyra looked pointedly at the other girl, her tone now much lighter, "have already finished reading _The Daily Prophet,_ I was about to make the polite inquiry of whether I could trouble you to borrow the newspaper. My cousin has… _misplaced_ her copy."

"No, we haven't finished," sneered a pale boy with platinum hair. "Who are _you_ to make such demands of us? And what kind of freak wears a _veil_ these days?"

 _Be nice,_ warned Valkyr from the other end of the hall. _Oh and by the way, everyone's staring at you…again._

 _This_ is _my nice! I'm not going Wampus on them—not yet, at least._

Lyra pursed her lips into a disgusted expression. "I see, Mr. Malfoy, that my advice on manners have become completely lost on your pitiful excuses of ears. How sad it is that, like mind, your house has not become inbred like the House of Black. Now I shall have to attribute your stupidity to your own self, instead of your ancestors' mistakes." At this the boy flushed, grey eyes stormy with anger.

"And as for the veil," Lyra continued, voice cold as ice and steadily increasing in volume, "has _no one_ ever told you that the eyes are the window to the soul? Why, the way _you_ are leaves you vulnerable to attack by any Legilimens, no matter how skilled you are at Occlumency. To show someone your eyes implies absolute trust. How _dare_ you, Mr. Malfoy, _assume_ that you have earned my trust? How _dare_ you assume that I ought to bow before you? Ought to show you my soul? Misogynistic asinine buffoon."

This last sentence she muttered, but it was evidently heard clearly across the hall, as proven by the resonating gasps.

"Tut, tut. What a pity that we could not have a simple, civilized conversation. Well, I shall take the paper regardless." Raising her right arm, Lyra elegantly crooked her right index finger in a 'come hither' motion. The newspaper sprang from the table, folded in half, rolled itself up, and flew into her waiting palm.

Lyra tilted her head. "I'd say 'good day,' but I wouldn't _really_ mean it. And I've been told," she swept her veiled gaze onto the boy the harpy was clutching at, "that _lying_ is a very, _very_ , bad thing to do, _Mr. Riddle_."

And with that, she spun on her heel and strode back to the end of the table.

When she sat down, Lyra was vaguely aware that Eileen was tugging at her sleeve. She was too busy reading the front-page article, titled 'Muggle-born Wizarding School in America Falls to Grindelwald Following MACUSA Take-Over,' and by a Mr. Raymond Skeeter. She was also vaguely aware that her tongue hurt and that she tasted a thick coating of blood in her mouth.

 _"_ _And of course, dear readers,"_ read the last line, _"you may have complete faith in the validity of this article. After all, The Prophet knows best."_

 _Incendio omnes et ex ignibus animae orimini,_ she snarled.

And true to her word, every copy of _The Daily Prophet_ burst into flames, and the Great Hall was stunned into silence as the Wampus, Thunderbird, Horned Serpent, and Pukwudgie, mascots of the houses at Ilvermorny, reared from the flames and roared.

Lyra turned away. Her grin, she knows, is positively _feral._


	7. A Trip too Diagon-ally

Floo, Lyra reaffirmed, was a decidedly unpleasant method of travel.

It had taken her all her effort to land gracefully and not tumble out of the fireplace, not to mention removing the soot lining the folds of her dress. No wonder wizards from back home apparated instead.

 _No,_ said Valkyr, _floo isn't preferred because a mispronunciation could land one of us in a No-Maj fireplace. Not because it's unfashionable._

 _Whatever._

When Professor Dumbledore failed to follow a moment later, Lyra stared about her suspiciously.

She was in a rather unpleasant-looking shop with very old, dark wood. A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Organs squelched quietly in glass jars lining the dusty shop windows, outside of which hung a sign with cracked and flaking sign:

Borgin & Burkes  
Established 1863

A faint creak of a floorboard and a barely-there sneaky step caught her ear.

 _Act natural,_ hissed Valkyr. _Like a spoiled pureblood customer, like an immature kid. I don't care. Just don't act nervous!_

Lyra rolled her eyes, listening carefully as she looked about nonchalantly. When she once again heard the small shuffle, this time three feet to her right, she turned slightly, catching a middle-aged man in her line of view. She pursed her lips disapprovingly, her challenging eyebrows caught behind her veil.

"Ah," said the man, voice as oily as his hair, "how may I help you, Miss…?"

The statement was toned upwards, inviting an answer and her complete confidence. Lyra refused.

"I weesh to browze your fine antiques, as I am zinking to find some gift for my dear muzzer. Vous 'as such artifacts as worth my time, non?"

 _French accent overdone,_ commented Valkyr.

Evidently the man bought her act, for he swept into a half-bow. "Mister Caractacus Burke at your service, Madam."

"You zink I am married?" Lyra demanded. "Do I appear zat old?"

 _That's slightly better_.

"No, no, on the contrary," Mr. Burke's panic was most amusing, "you look young and beautiful Mademoiselle, like a dewy rose. Permit me to show you our most treasured collection. Now, we keep our finest pieces away from the window, it doesn't do to let the riffraff to see them, doesn't do at all—"

"Humph. You Eenglish folk talk 'oo much."

"Apologies, apologies, Mademoiselle...now here we have some _very_ interesting items. These cuffs have a particularly nasty curse on them, but were said to belong to Merlin himself. Note the fine filigree, the inlaid emeralds and beryl. Very good work on this opal necklace, must have killed nineteen Muggles by now. Hairpin with blood magic, ancient Chinese, actually; used to assassinate the empress—no? This dagger was obtained from a Voodoo priest, and it traps the magical essences of those it kills. Very useful when getting into fights—"

"I shall take ze dagger for mon cher, zen," interrupted Lyra. "I may reserve ze item, non? It would be ze most _inconvenient_ ozzerwise, I always pay for ze reserved items at ze end of ze shopping…."

"Yes, yes of course!" said Burke hastily. "That will be sixty galleons. But you must still be looking for a gift for your mother?"

Lyra stiffened. "Oui, and I do love my muzzer, non? Point me to some jewelry zat _will not kill her_ , sil vous plait. And I am on budget here, fifty-five galleons if you do not lie, five if you do. Mon cher has many blades in his collection already."

Burke obsequiously agreed, scrambling to show off his other wares. Lyra nearly dragged a hand down her face in frustration.

"—and now one of my most prized treasures, most loathe to part with it," Lyra rolled her eyes at his statement. "—the locket of Salazar Slytherin himself, gifted to his wife. A woman sold it to me for only ten Galleons, must not have known its true worth."

 _Slytherin, he was a Parselmouth, right?_

 _Yes, little one. You learned about him a year ago, remember?_

"Zat ees not ze real locket," sniffed Lyra. "My muzzer wears ze real locket, weech opens to ze Parzeltongue." She was fibbing of course, but Burke didn't need to know that.

Burke was gaping at her, face purple and blotchy. "But—"

"I say zat woman was trying to trick vous to buy it for hundreds of zees galleons. Good for vous, recognizing ze fraud," she continued, attempting to mollify the man's pride, "zough shame on vous to try and trick moi. I zink zat ze workmanship and detail deserved more zan tens Galleons, non? Ze gold is twenty-four carat, et ze emerauds I zink were cut most convincingly. Ze alchemical symbols are also of ze right depth. If I had not seen ze original, I too would be fooled. Zis shall be a most wonderful present for Maman, she is so afraid of wearing ze real locket in public. I shall double ze price you paid, say, twenty of ze galleons?"

"Twenty-five."

"Twenty-zree, and zat ees generous."

"Done."

"Reserve it with ze dagger, sil vous plait."

"Of course. Your name, Mademoiselle?"

 _Think fast,_ urged Valkyr, _what are some lost lines of French purebloods?_

 _Dumont? Vallée-de-lys? Honore? Roux? Montiere? Sacré-cœur?_

"Sacré-cœur. Zat will be all for now. Merci beaucoup monsieur, it was pleasant doing ze business with vous. Oh, and would vous be so kind as to permit me to use ze floo?"

»»-¤-««

After being thrown through the floo network a second time, Lyra finally found herself in Diagon Alley. Professor Dumbledore was still nowhere to be seen, so she proceeded to follow the signs, walking towards a large, snow-white marble building. As she climbed the steps, she passed goblin guards standing by large bronze doors. She passed them without incident, walking next through a pair of smaller silver doors, bearing the inscription:

 _Enter, stranger, but take heed  
Of what awaits the sin of greed  
For those who take, but do not earn,  
Must pay most dearly in their turn._

 _So if you seek beneath our floors  
A treasure that was never yours,  
Thief, you have been warned, beware  
Of finding more than treasure there._

Lyra passed through the second doors, also without incident, into a hall lined with goblins. To one of these goblins Professor Dumbledore was talking animatedly.

"—so please, do tell me if she passes through—"

Lyra walked up and tapped his elbow. The professor jumped, spinning around.

"Ah, Lyra! Where've you been?"

"What was the last thing the headmaster said to me?"

The professor sighed. "Lyra, though that was a very impressive use of wordless and wandless pyrotechnics, I must impose upon you the importance of not losing your temper and setting Hogwarts on fire."

"Close enough. I took a wrong turn in the fireplace and ended up in Borgin & Burkes. Surprisingly, I had a most interesting conversation with a Mister Burke, and I now have on reserve two items worth a total of eighty galleons."

Professor Dumbledore looked unsure. "I have on allowance only twenty Galleons from the school for your supplies, and Headmaster Dippet requires a receipt of all items purchased…besides, why would you do business in a reputably dark shop?"

"To gain something one must offer something in return."

Then, turning to the goblin, "Merry meet…?"

"Gornuk," supplied the goblin, gruffly.

"Merry meet Gornuk, may fortune smile on our dealings and may gold overflow from your vaults. I am Lyra Verisiel Drakonia, and I am here on the business to reclaim and reopen the holdings of House Drakonia."

The goblin raised his nonexistent eyebrows. "Merry meet Heiress Drakonia, may your labors prove fruitful. Please follow me with your familiar and your escort."

Lyra followed the goblin, Valkyr perched on her shoulders and Professor Dumbledore strolling behind.

They entered a small stone chamber, furnished only with two wooden chairs on opposite sides of a wooden table and a dark, imposing armoire. Gornuk gestured her into one of the chairs, motioning for the professor to stand behind her before opening the armoire. From its dark recesses, the goblin withdrew a goblet containing a glittering liquid, an ornate dagger, an eagle-feathered quill, and a large logbook, placing these items on the table before sitting in the opposite seat.

At the goblin's bidding, Lyra picked up the dagger and slashed her palm, squeezing blood into the goblet. As soon as three drops of blood broke the surface of the liquid, Gornuk yanked the goblet away, and Lyra wordlessly healed the gash, watching the liquid turn a deep crimson. Gornuk opened the large logbook, turning to a blank page and pushing it forward.

"Now," said the goblin, picking up the quill and handing it to her, "sign your name."

Lyra dipped the quill into the liquid, writing her name in a slightly looped, flowing script. No sooner had she removed the pen from paper then words appeared, bleeding through the page:

 _Heiress to House Drakonia_ _  
_ _ **Vault USA-10920**_ _, Tributary Trust Fund, Gisir Branch_ : _459 Dragots_ | _52_ _Sprinks  
_ _ **Vault 0033**_ _, Drakonia Vault—Security Level 5  
҉ _Liquid: _92 194 589 347 673 Galleons_ | _3 874 581 Sickles_ | _5 870 348 686 Knuts_ _  
҉_ Non-liquid: _50 talents gold_ | _23 talents silver_ | _165 marks precious stones_ | _various magical artifacts  
҉ _Illiquid: _29 seats on Wizengamot_ | _3 seats on ICW_ | _1 governor's chair of Koldovstoretz  
҉_ Associated Properties: _Drakonia Ancestral Home & Feudal Lands, Tributary Vaults_† _  
_ _ **Vault 0102**_ _, Pendragon Vault—Security Level 2  
҉ _Liquid: _3 022 835 Galleons_ | _2 847_ _Sickles_ | _6 723 Knuts  
҉ _Non-liquid: _various magical artifacts  
҉ _Illiquid: _1 seat on Wizengamot_ | _1 seat on ICW_  
 _҉_ Associated Properties: _Pendragon Mansion & Lands  
_ _ **Vault 0235**_ _, Peverell Vault—Security Level 1  
҉ _Liquid: _566 Galleons_ | _8 523 Sickles_ | _773 Knuts  
҉ _Illiquid: _1 seat on Wizengamot_  
 _҉_ Associated Properties: _Godric's Hollow, Peverell Cottage, Gaunt & Potter Vaults_

"The list of tributary vaults you may withdraw a quota from is quite long," said Gornuk. "These three are your main vaults, but you can see the tributaries as well. "

The goblin gestured to a footnote at the bottom of the page.

† _Significant Tributary Vaults include Malfoy, Black, Fawley, Rosier, Nott, Prewett, Dracul, L'estrange, Macmillan, Delacour, Fournier, Gauthier, Eberstadt, Zabini, da Vinci, Galilei, Mazzi, Pyrites, Thanos, Metaxas, Abadi, Qureshi, Shafiq, Dolohov, Romanov, Voronina, Bychkov, Dykhovichny, Ivkin, Trimotin, Draganov, Gregorovitch, Meier, König, Kaiser, Berger, Kühn, Sauer, d'Eath, Coelho, Marrero, Zhou, Ming, Wang, Wu, Po, Graves, and Moon.  
For a complete list, turn to Index R-XVIII._

"Each of the vaults pays a small sum to Drakonia Vault each year, which is then compounded into the principal with interest. You have over one hundred active tributaries, and three hundred twenty-seven inactive. Owners of the vaults will be notified if you decide to activate their annual payments."

"That will not be necessary," Lyra replied. "May have a compound key made for all three vaults? I would like to withdraw two hundred galleons."

»»-¤-««

"I see," said Professor Dumbledore as they exited the bank, "that I need not have worried about funds."

"Not at all, Uncle Albus. Now let's go shopping—my treat today."

"A wand, first," the professor stated, firmly. "Ollivander has long been regarded the best wandmaker in Britain, and among the finest in all of Europe, and his family has been doing business since 382 B.C. after arriving with the Romans."

"Then he lies, because the Roman conquest of Britain didn't start until A.D. 43 under the Emperor Claudius. The earliest a Roman ever stepped foot into Britannia was 54 B.C. during Julius Caesar's invasion in the Gallic Wars."

The professor looked startled, but his eyes were twinkling and it seemed that he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"However that may be," continued Lyra, turning to see a sign that read, 'Diagon Alley: South Side,' and underneath, 'Daily Prophet • Cafés • Whizz Hard Books • Second-Hand Robes • The Junk Shop • Ollivander's • Obscurus Books • Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop • Twilfitt and Tattings • GalloLoans,' and deciding to waste no more of her time, "I suppose his work will speak for itself."

The second to last shop on 'Diagon Alley: South Side' was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C., and a single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as Lyra opened the door and they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that spun slowly in the middle of a dusty hardwood floor. Narrow boxes were piled neatly on shelves right up to the ceiling.

A small cough was heard from the recesses of the shop, and Lyra looked up, startled.

Mr. Ollivander—or so Lyra presumed the elderly man to be—was rather thin and spindly, with wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hmmm," said the man, giving her a piercing look. "A Drakonia—the gold ring around your iris gives you away. You have her eyes; all of you do. It's been a while since one of your noble line has stepped foot in my family's shop. Now let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Right hand, though I'm equally suited with the left," said Lyra.

"Hold out your arms. That's it." He measured her from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round her head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Heiress Drakonia. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

As he said this, Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Heiress Drakonia. Let's start with this one: pear and unicorn tail hair, eight and three-quarters inches, swishy."

Lyra drew the wand, flicking her wrist sharply. To her left, a vase shattered and she flinched.

"That won't do!" exclaimed Ollivander hastily, snatching the wand from her hands and shoving a new one towards her.

"Silver lime, phoenix feather, eleven inches, whippy." This wand was also snatched away.

"No, no—try beech, dragon heartstring, nine inches, nice and flexible."

Half an hour later and many boxes lying haphazardly on the floor:

"Tricky customer, eh? Well, I daresay this is the last of the bunch: aspen, dragon heartstring, fourteen inches, rigid."

Lyra's hand hovered over the wood before she pulled away.

"It doesn't feel quite right, none of them do. Could I purchase a dud wand, perhaps? One that is just wood?"

Ollivander muttered something unintelligible, moving back to the depths of the shops before emerging with a thin box engraved with gold. Lyra, meanwhile, had selected three black leather holsters.

"Heiress Drakonia, your line has always had trouble with tradition. This wand is created from one of the rarest cores I possess. Try rosewood and lignum vitae, dragon heartstone, with an infusion of hematite. Twelve inches, supple."

Lyra took velvet box, opening it and admiring the roses carved onto the handle of the wand.

 _Didn't realize that you liked such_ pretty and shiny _things,_ snorted Valkyr.

 _Oh, shush you, you're incorrigible with precious stones._

As soon as she took the wand up, an ineffable warmth spread throughout her body, and as she swished the wand downwards, a stream of golden sparks flowed from the tip, lighting up the shop as if they were small suns.

"Oh, bravo!" exclaimed Mr. Ollivander, "A perfect match."

"Thank you," said Lyra. "If it is not too much trouble, I wish to purchase these holsters as well."

"Excellent choice! They are spell-proofed and touch keyed, in addition to having a concealing charm of my own invention."

Lyra paid a galleon apiece for the holsters, and fourteen sickles and twenty-three knuts for her wand.

»»-¤-««

"Now," said Professor Dumbledore, once they were back on the main street of Diagon Alley, "off to the Apothecary."

They stopped in Slug and Jigger's Apothecary, and Lyra picked up fluxweed, knotgrass, lacewing flies, bicorn horn, essence of sundew, boomslang skin, leech juice, nux myristica, and salpetre. At her insistence, Professor Dumbledore also accompanied her across the street to Potage's Cauldron Shoppe, where she purchased a copper cauldron— _my old one was destroyed, along with the rest of the Potions Lab, and pewter is one of the most unreliable metals for potion cauldrons,_ she said by means of explanation—a set of silver scales, mortar and pestle, and crystal phials. Fifteen galleons and twenty-two sickles.

Not bad, especially for the rare ingredients.

The professor watched bemusedly as Lyra tapped her wand against each of the items, vanishing them with a slight _pop._

"They will appear in my personal luggage," she explained as they exited, bell tinkling above the swinging door. Having memorized the layout of Diagon Alley and where it turned onto Knockturn as they exited Gringotts, she turned to the professor.

"There's a bookstore I saw earlier—Flourish and Blotts, I believe—that I've been _dying_ to explore. May we sojourn there, Uncle Albus? We could also stop by Florean Fortescue's for ice cream before I retrieve my orders from Borgin  & Burkes."

With twinkling eyes, Professor Dumbledore assented, and Lyra spent the next two hours browsing through an eclectic set of books, purchasing a few rarer tomes that caught her interest. She also purchased a few of the NEWT-level texts, _Advanced Potion Making, The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 7, Spellman's Syllabary,_ and _Goshawk's Guide to Herbology._ The other classes she didn't plan on taking, in accordance to her plans.

As promised, the pair stopped at Florean Fortescue's, and Lyra purchased a small cone of Sweet Potato ice cream for herself, complete with chopped walnuts and drizzled maple syrup that tasted of _home_. The professor ordered a double cone of Goat Cheese Beet Swirl with frosted almonds and dried cranberries, and Valkyr had a cup of White Chocolate with Habañero pepper.

Finally, at twenty-three minutes after noon, Professor Dumbledore cast a Notice-Me-Not charm on himself before they walked into the dark narrowness of Knockturn Alley. Lyra made quick work of handing the galleons over to Mister Burke, and they exited the shop, the pouch of galleons considerably lighter. Looking about quickly, she dragged the professor behind the shop, dropping the transfigurations on her clothes.

"Say," she said, turning to him with a wicked grin and a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "whadd'ya think 'bout flying back to Hogwarts?"


	8. NOT A CHAPTER

Hi all!

I'd like to thank you so much for the support that you all have shown for _Drakonia_.

Here's the good news: I've finished school, so I'll be able to write.

Here's the bad news: I'm rereading my chapters and cringing a bit. So, I'm editing the chapters I already have. _Drakonia_ will be down starting next week, but it will be back!


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